


Bird and Bayonet

by DoorKeeper9



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Military, American Civil War, Angst, Baby when it's love if it's not rough it isn't fun, Bisexual Ben Solo, Bisexual Rey (Star Wars), Crossdressing, Drinking to Cope, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Everything's Smut When You're Touch Starved, F/M, Fight Fight Fuck, Fluff, Gratuitous Hair Stroking, Hurt/Comfort, I'll tag as I go but expect the full range plus kinks, Kylo Ren is Not Nice, Kylo is the savage beast, Kylo/KOR Bromance, Masturbation, Mention of pregnancy, Military, Music Soothes the Savage Beast, Only One Bed, Polyglot Kylo, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Scars, Secret Relationship, Setting appropriate violence, Slap Slap Kiss, Slow Burn, Soft as hell when they're not actively killing people, Touch-Starved, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Virgin Rey (Star Wars), What's the opposite of gay panic?, You best believe these silent lumberjack KOR want Ren and Rey to get laid, not Mulan I swear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:35:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 56,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24800077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoorKeeper9/pseuds/DoorKeeper9
Summary: Rey’s first secret is that “he” is a she. Rey’s second secret is that the bloodthirsty captain she serves, Kylo Ren, is less hateful to her than she wants to admit. Especially since they’ve started sharing a tent.American Civil War AU with Union main characters featuring two violent people carving a soft space for themselves in the midst of a bloodbath.
Relationships: Kylo Ren & Rey, Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey & Ben Solo, Rey & Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 837
Kudos: 1059





	1. The Army

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Before we get started, [HERE](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Ea2Lr5KX0AA0eE0?format=jpg&name=4096x4096) is a moodboard, and here are my disclaimers:
> 
> 1) This fic is not going to be 100% historically accurate. I care enough that I’ve researched army structure and timeline and different musket balls, but I don’t care enough to give everyone an accurate regional accent. I won’t use any egregiously out of place language, but I wanted to write this damn fic and I never will if I strive for full accuracy. 
> 
> 2) I will not be delving into the rationale of the war or trying to glorify either side of the conflict; I’m just treating the Civil War as a backdrop, one that suits Rey and Ben’s roles in SW. 
> 
> That all being said, my motivation is really just “what if they had depraved anal sex but also tremble whenever they touch??” Buckle up for the ride!

**January, 1863.**

**Virginia.**

They’ve been sitting in muddy snow for _weeks_. 

Footpaths have been worn through the slush by thousands of ill-soled boots. These paths wind like wayward serpents between ugly clusters of tents, small standalone lean-tos, huts, and flickering campfires. To a bird overheard, the unsightly heap looks like a metropolis grown up on the edge of the quiet Rappahannock river. The inhabitants of this city are mostly nurses, laundresses, supplymen, and most of all: soldiers. One hundred and twenty thousand soldiers, give or take a few thousand. Their numbers make this swollen but raggedy camp the 9th largest city on the continent, surpassing the fledgeling Chicago out West. Their opponents, the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia, are forty-thousand short of their number, an army merely the population of Newark. Not that their size hasn’t kept them from winning.

The soldiers themselves are restless, ready to snatch up the least bit of rumor and spin whole campaigns out of it. They hotly debate presumed maneuvers to the point of blows, having nothing much better to do besides eat or drill. These soldiers are farm boys, mostly; boys who were bored in their work and inspired by news of the war in the papers. They left their farms and their families behind to take part in the great battle for freedom and state’s rights. That’s what they said, anyway, at the time. Mostly they left so that their towns’ pretty girls, and old men, and their mothers, would cry over them and proclaim them brave heroes. Some of them _are_ heroes, by now. Many of them have killed, and seen their friends killed. Many of them won’t be going home to those pretty girls, not soon or ever.

They are all Union soldiers. Their army is named after the river Potomac.

The company camped in the apple orchard near the edge of the forest isn’t much different from all of the rest. On paper, they’re known as Company K, followed by a neat list of 101 names. That roster has changed, of course; over two thirds of the original names were crossed off after the miserable fighting at Fredericksburg back in December. The boys who are left on the list aren’t particularly remarkable aside from the fact they’ve survived. So on paper and off it, Company K is best known for its captain: Kylo Ren.

Ren isn’t close with his men, but when he does talk, people listen. His hands aren’t callused like theirs and his clothes are too fine under the grass stains and muck, but he kills like a scythe in the field when it matters. He keeps track of their mess when their offense bogs down, bellowing orders like a steamship horn and moving them on, on, onwards through the ranks of the farm boys in gray uniforms.

He’s a devil, but he’s on their side. 

\---

Rey Johnson is hearing an awful lot about Kylo Ren as she marches towards Company K. 

“He cuts off ears as trophies,” says one recruit. “Eats them like jerky when supplies run low.”

“I heard he _makes_ his men take trophies,” another confides. “Anyone without a kill gets transferred.”

“I heard he lost half his face at Fredericksburg.”

“I heard he shot a man just for sass.”

“How’d you hear all of that?” asks one fresh-faced boy. Like everyone else, he’s walking precisely within their neat column. “We only been in camp half an hour.”

“Folks talk,” says the original gossip. He shrugs.

Rey doesn’t talk, though; she shoulders her pack and listens in silence. This little posse of six dozen recruits has been travelling together on foot for nearly two weeks, and Rey keeps her head down as a rule, only saying enough to keep from being memorable for _not_ speaking. The other infantrymen ignore her amiably enough, but that’s because Rey is careful. She’s watchful. She lets nothing slip. But despite all her precautions, all the distance she puts between herself and the others, she never feels safe. That’s because she’s a she, but to them she’s a him; Rey Johnson is disguised as a man. 

It had seemed a simple deception at first, when she’d first slipped on boy’s clothes in the woods months ago. She’d worn pants when she worked on the farm anyway, because Plutt was barely around, so that part came easy. Cutting her hair to her scalp had been harder, not least because she was alone with only a knife for the task. But her heart had been harder than that, and when her braid fell to the ground her only regret was the swallows who lived in the eaves of Plutt’s barn would never get to use it for nests. 

Having people around made it challenging, though. Forced north to Washington by hunger, Rey made herself a ghost of the streets, a shadow who couldn’t be caught or catalogued. She lived in constant fear of being uncovered by some wandering eye. And, in fact, she finally had been. 

_Clever girl_ , Maz had said, startling Rey half to death. The old woman had grinned at her slyly, crooking one dark, weathered finger. _You must have a story to tell._

Afterwards, after they’d talked, Rey had been nervous when she’d enlisted. She’d been nervous changing into her uniform. She’d been nervous every night she slept near the recruits, terrified she’d wake up in the morning and forget who she was. At this point, Rey is plain used to her heart beating quick as a rabbit beneath her breast band; if the war doesn't kill her, the stress nearly will.

All these other recruits are bare-cheeked teenagers, which is good; it makes Rey’s own smooth face stand out less. Beneath her dull blue jacket and once-white shirt, the familiar tightness of her breast band constricts the roundness of her traitorous flesh. Not that there’s much flesh to jiggle, of course. She had modest curves even back at Plutt’s farm, and slim rations since then have reduced her low hills to meager knolls. She’s also learned to cultivate a habit of filth, keeping grime on her face and choosing not to wash, both to ward off her companions and to avoid publicly bathing. Pissing is always a problem, but one that she deals with by going while squatting to shit- not uncommon, given the prevalence of dysentery.

A firm hand on her arm distracts Rey from her thoughts. Her muscles leap under the touch, and she practically lurches away from the boy next to her. He blinks at her outsized reaction, hand still outstretched.

“Watch where you’re going, is all,” he says, frowning.

Rey nods silently, willing her heartbeat to slow. She steps around the slush puddle the boy had been warding her from, mentally cursing herself for her knee-jerk reaction. Rey has barely touched anyone for almost a year, not even in Washington. It wasn’t safe then, and it isn’t safe now; being close to someone just invites being discovered. But being so obvious about her aversion won’t help her out either.

Thankfully, the boy next to her just resumes marching. “I never seen so many folks in my life,” he says to her, voice faint with wonder. Rey glances at him; she thinks his name’s Holden. 

“Same here,” she says quietly. It’s even true, too. Rey comes from a small rural town of less than a few hundred souls. She looks around warily now, taking in the broad clutter of lean-tos and fire pits as they pass by. The men who inhabit this camp represent a wide range of soldiers: some grizzled, some young, some young with old faces. Much of this army is made up of green men like Rey and her column, all recently arrived. An officer told them that Company K has been undermanned since December, so they’re here to help fill out the roster. 

After calling out for directions a number of times, the recruits finally arrive at Company K’s orchard spot. The soldiers around these campfires are veterans, and some spit at the ground while others catcall the young infantrymen. Uncertain, Rey’s column idles in place.

“Tell Hux there’s fresh meat!” shouts one man into camp.

A few minutes later, a trim red haired lieutenant appears from the bowels of the camp; the recruits all stand at attention, remembering their manners. He has a list in his hand and he paces carefully from man to man, asking names and sending them off in one direction or another to set up their tents. He finally gets to Rey and she wills her tension to slip from her body like a stream. 

“Private Johnson?” he drawls.

“Yes, sir.”

Hux looks down at her and a faint curl of disgust twists his lips.

“Guess they don’t care about age anymore.”

Rey straightens. “I’m old enough, sir.”

Hux snorts. “I bet you are.” Shaking his head and idly scratching his muttonchops, he looks back down at the roster. His eyebrows raise after a moment. “Adjutant, huh? I wouldn’t have pegged you for a scholar.”

Adjutants handle paperwork, mostly, which means that they must read and write. Rey could do both, thanks to the small church school in her town; her education was one of the few things she’d gotten in spite of Plutt’s wishes, which is no small point of accomplishment. Rey lifts her chin proudly and Hux shoots her an impatient glare. “Stand to the side,” he says sourly, shifting his chewing tobacco. “I’ll take you to the captain as soon as I’m done.”

Rey obeys, heart leaping. Even though “the captain” must mean Kylo Ren, it doesn’t matter one whit; Rey just needs the position. She knows she can be useful in any role, but to be stationed with a captain would be quite the advantage. Officer’s aides are expected to travel through camps bearing messages, giving her the perfect excuse to move without challenge. She would also have access to paperwork, rosters. Everything that she needs to finish her search.

Briefly, Rey had considered maneuvering herself further up the chain of command, perhaps at the side of a brigadier general who controlled 30 companies just like this one. The scrutiny at that level would be more intense, though, and those staff didn’t rotate out nearly as often. It was also technically possible for her to volunteer as a woman: as a nurse, a laundress, or even a whore. But Rey shuddered to think of it. The idea of exposing herself in that way, being soft and accessible in womanly skirts, makes Rey want to vomit. As much as she desperately needs information, it’s not worth being that weak. 

Not again.

While Rey stands to the side, mind churning, Hux keeps on down the line of recruits. Finally, the lieutenant wraps up with the last of the infantrymen. He spits on the ground and stalks back towards her, expression irate.

“This way, private,” Hux says, gesturing for her to follow. Rey clears her thoughts and silently falls in behind him. She keeps an eye out as they wind through the camp. Drilling has dispersed for the day, so the soldiers are crowded around their campfires joking with one another; their breath plumes in the air. Some of them are slurping from battered metal tins, which makes Rey’s stomach growl. She ignores it.

In just a few minutes, they come to a campsite set further back from the rest, near the treeline. There’s a high awning strung over four saplings, shielding a simple table and a few overturned supply boxes that serve as chairs. An unlit fire pit sits dark and discarded to the side, despite the winter chill. A large but simple triangular tent is set up at the back of the awning, and Rey’s eyes fall on a _very_ large pair of boots sticking out from its door-flap.

“Captain Ren, sir,” shouts Hux, snapping into a salute. Rey hastily copies him, sending her gaze to the trees. “The new troops have arrived.”

There’s a pause. Then a deep voice, hoarse and annoyed, rumbles out from the tent: “And?”

Rey’s ears perk up. Hux maintains his rigidity. 

“There’s a new adjutant here, he could be your new aide.”

“I don’t need an aide, Hux.”

“The colonel said-”

“The colonel can shit himself bloody.”

“He said-”

“I say _silence_ ,” the voice snarls, violence rising. “I told you not to disturb me.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

Rey glances at Hux. The ginger’s jaw is clenched tight, but he doesn’t move, so neither does she.

A low growl resonates from the tent. A moment later there’s the sound of something large moving; Rey irrationally thinks of a bear lumbering out of its cave. Peripherally, she can see a tall shape unfolding at the mouth of the tent, and she can certainly pick up on the stream of vile curses flowing from that vicinity. When the figure- presumably the captain- moves towards them, her eyes widen at the way his boots manage to stomp loudly even on the packed dirt. 

“This the one?” the same hoarse voice asks scornfully, suddenly near. 

Rey wavers in place. This part of her job- just _getting_ the job- should be easy, and yet she’s more nervous right now than ever before. All of the gossip from marching through camp returns to her mind with a vengeance; the captain himself stands almost in front of her, looming dark at the edge of her vision. It takes all of Rey’s discipline not to turn her gaze towards him.

“Yes, sir,” Hux says meekly.

A pregnant pause follows. Rey’s heartbeat speeds up. She wonders, as always, if someone will see through her disguise, if the dirt and her breast band and her closely cropped hair aren’t enough. Most people don’t notice what they’re not looking for...

“Look at me,” says the captain. Stiffly, Rey obeys.

Kylo Ren is a tall man, a whole head over her. Her gaze first snags on his buttons: tarnished gold rows hanging loose on either side of his opened frock coat. Looking up from the soiled dark blue fabric, she sees that his chest and his shoulders are broad. With better rations, perhaps, he might have been solid all the way through, but he’s solid enough. Then Rey’s eyes look up towards his face, and that’s where they stay.

_I heard he lost half his face at Fredericksburg,_ they’d gossiped.

Well, he nearly had.

Ren’s face is long and hollow, the hints of a skull sticking out at his cheekbones. He has dark circles and a red rim encircling his eyes, leaving no doubt that he’d been trying to sleep in that tent and failing, no less. But that’s just the right side of his face. The left side is quite simply a ruin. Ugly dark scars slash down his gaunt face, thick and knotted and raw; the deepest is one ragged trench from his brow to the neck of his shirt, but each would be grievous of its own right. The cut on his brow must have been a particularly terrible blow, striking deeply enough that his left eye is visibly nicked down the middle where the steel made its pass. That eye stares out gray from its socket, whitened with clouds, and Rey is frozen in place by its glare. She stifles a gasp.

“Captain,” she acknowledges, voice barely steady.

The captain’s eyes narrow, both the dark and the gray. He _stares_ at Rey so intently that she feels he must see through her, he must see everything. The two of them look at each other for a long moment; Rey tries and fails to keep her eyes away from his scars. Then Ren snorts. He takes Rey by the chin with one gloved hand and tips it up slightly. Not gently. Rey tries not to flinch.

“He matches me, is that it?” the captain asks with disdain, and it takes Rey a second to realize that he’s speaking to Hux.

Hux’s eyes dart at Rey. “I hadn’t thought of that, sir.”

Rey swallows, throat bobbing, the words sinking in. She usually knots a kerchief around her neck, but the march to camp had been long and sweaty, and she’d abandoned it. Without that cover, both men can clearly see the long, knitted scar that cuts across her own neck. The captain considers it.

“You’ve fought before?” he asks gruffly. 

Rey stares at the way his scars crinkle when he speaks. Ren notices, grabs her chin more strongly and shakes it.

“ _Answer_ ,” he demands.

Rey swallows again. “Yes, sir,” she says quietly.

“Is he dead?” he asks bluntly.

Rey squeezes her eyes shut involuntarily. “Yes, sir,” she says in a whisper. She forces herself to open them again and look directly back at the captain..

“Mine’s dead as well,” he says with an ugly twist of his lips; his gouges make it a leer. He drops his hand from her chin like she’s dirty and turns towards Hux.

“He’ll do,” he says shortly.

The captain tromps back to his tent and ducks back inside, lowering himself down onto the blankets within. The tent flap swings shut. Rey lets out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding; it feels like a storm has just passed. She looks over at Hux uncertainly, since he’s the only one left to give orders.

“Set up your tent there,” Hux says, pointing at a nearby stretch of grass. “You can cut branches from the forest if you need.” 

“So am I...the aide?” Rey asks doubtfully.

“Yes.” Hux thins his lips. “When the captain calls for you, you come here straight away. You’re his shadow from now on.”

“Yes, sir,” Rey says, throwing him a salute. She keeps her face calm, even though her guts are still churning from the sight of that eye and the fear of it piercing her armor. _He’s just a brute_ , Rey chides herself, _just one more monster._ She can surely handle being his shadow; it means she’ll be standing behind him, out of his sight.

Hux strides away, abruptly leaving Rey alone on the packed dirt under the awning. She lingers in place for a moment, looking around herself. It’s almost quiet here, almost refreshing. Just her, the dark forest, the setting sun...and the man in the tent. 

Long shadows from the table and chairs stretch over the ground; they brush black fingers over the tent’s door-flap. Strangely curious, Rey takes a single step forward.

_“Dismissed,_ ” a voice hisses ominously.

Rey jumps at the captain’s rasp. She trots- well, runs, maybe- out from under the awning until she stands a safe distance away, double the distance that Hux had originally indicated. Her heart beats strangely in her chest, hands clutch tightly at the straps of her pack.

_The hardest part is yet to come_ , she thinks sternly, trying to calm herself down. _You can’t be weak now._

Rey takes a deep breath, then exhales it slowly. More calmly, she opens her eyes and starts to unpack her tent, gaze flickering occasionally towards the captain’s quarters. But Ren doesn’t appear again; not when the sun sets, not when the stars come out. And when Rey, finally tired of counting the stars, rolls up in her blanket to sleep, she dreams of nothing stranger than gray, shifting clouds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again- I hope you enjoyed the setup! I am SO excited to write this version of Kylo/Ben and Rey, and I hope you're intrigued as well. I knew when I started picturing this fic that I wanted Kylo to be full-on realistically scarred, but I admit that I don't know how scars- especially corneal scars- work. I did do some research, but you know what yields horrific search results? "Sliced eyeball." Or try (don't try, seriously) "socket without eye." Let's just say, I opted to write his scar as realistically as I can picture it *without* the visual reference. I do want to be sensitive to anyone who may have severe scarring or impaired vision, though, so you are very welcome to leave me constructive feedback throughout if I'm portraying something inaccurately!
> 
> Thank you in advance to anyone who reads this, I appreciate you <3
> 
> References  
> [The size of cities in the 1860s](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1860_United_States_Census)  
> [The coat Ben was wearing](https://dyn1.heritagestatic.com/lf?set=path%5B3%2F9%2F2%2F1%2F3921085%5D&call=url%5Bfile%3Aproduct.chain%5D) (I have a coat kink, ok)  
> [What Rey is wearing/carrying](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/7e/e6/97/7ee6975aab940cd7750c86368509f2c3.jpg)


	2. The Coat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The enemy before the lovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick cw: there's a paragraph referencing horse death/burial 3 paragraphs down from the 1st dotted line

Rey awakes, shivering, to the call of a bugle sounding reveille. She cracks her eyes open and peers out at the snow; it’s lit a faint orange-white by the head of the sun just rising over the hills.

Camp. Captain Ren. She is Rey Johnson, male.

Rey’s memories solidify, lending her the conviction she needs to rise from her tent. Or, to be more specific, she crawls out from under her pitiful shelter. All infantrymen are given a dog tent upon joining the army, but these “half-shelters” are designed to be buttoned together with another man’s tent; by sleeping alone, Rey is forfeiting the cover she needs to actually keep warm. In return, she gains personal space and a more peaceful sleep without threat of discovery. That _almost,_ if not quite, makes the shivering worth it.

Rey stretches stiffly and starts jumping in place, trying to get the blood flowing back through her limbs. Her gaze falls on captain Ren’s tent in the near distance, and she wonders vaguely if he’s awake too. She supposes she ought to find out, as his aide, and yet...she stalls instead. It’s not nerves, she tells herself sharply, it’s only that he seemed so intent on not being disturbed yesterday. Surely, she hopes, the brute doesn’t need her quite yet.

Rey is covertly relieving herself in the forest when a new bugle call startles her from her squat.

“Assembly!” a voice faintly calls. “Line up for roll call!”

Rey curses and pulls up her trousers; she’s deep in the woods, enjoying pissing without miming a penis for once. Rey jogs back towards camp, following the voice, and ends up back in the orchard where the rest of Company K is quickly assembling. Some men are stifling yawns, some are still pulling on boots. One man has half his face lathered, the other half shorn, with the shaving blade still in his hand.

It turns out that Hux, the red-headed lieutenant, handles roll call. He shouts out the company names with precision, scowling whenever the name is met with silence.

“Where’s Hopkins?” he snaps waspishly.

“The latrines, sir!”

“And Hunter?”

“Latrines!”

“Jackson?”

“Got the trots, sir!” calls a voice from the line.

“Him and everyone else, I suppose,” Hux exclaims, voice gone high with ire. His lip curls with displeasure, pale eyes narrowing down at the roster.

“Johnson!” he yells.

“Here, sir!” Rey calls quickly.

“Thank the Lord,” Hux sneers. “And here I thought the whole company was shitting.”

As soon as the roll call is done, yet another bugle sounds to dismiss the men for their breakfast and chores. Unfortunately, that means that Rey finally has to return to the captain. The walk to his tent seems unnaturally long, not least because she gets lost a few times on the way. By the time she arrives, Ren is already sitting out under his awning. He looks just as hideous as Rey remembers; the daylight isn’t kind to his scars or the state of his long, rumpled coat. A fire crackles in the firepit, and he’s sipping a tin cup of what smells like coffee. His eyes, both the dark and the gray, fix on Rey as she approaches; she feels a jolt of unease at how perfectly his whole body stills, like a mountain cat sighting its prey.

“Where have you been?” he asks evenly, lowering his cup.

“At roll call, sir,” she says stiffly.

He nods. Puts the coffee cup down. “Do you know what aide means?” he asks almost pleasantly.

“No, sir.”

“It’s French. Means ‘help.’” His tone sharpens on the last word.

“Oh,” says Rey simply. “I didn’t know-”

“‘Help’ would have been gathering firewood,” he continues, voice starting to rise. “Building my fire, and making my coffee.”

“Oh,” Rey says again, cheeks reddening, “I-”

“‘Help’ is your purpose in camp,” Ren says, loudly cutting her off, “and if you are _not_ helping me in the ways I desire, _when_ I desire, then you’re not much of an aide, now are you?”

Rey just opens her mouth, searching for words to appease him.

“ _Are you?”_ Ren barks, rising up from his seat with a violent lurch. His coffee spills to the ground.

Rey flinches back. “No, sir!”

“That’s correct,” he says, glaring at her. His whole face has gone livid in the space of mere seconds, and his scars seem to breathe. 

“I don’t need an aide,” he says darkly, intense. “I don’t want an aide. Especially not some bastard Virginian who decided to fight for us two years too late.”

Rey’s heart jolts in her chest; his words are uncomfortably close to the truth.

“But I have no choice, it seems,” Ren continues, his voice gone to gravel. “For now.”

He takes a step closer. Rey takes a step back.

“If you give me any excuse,” Ren says, “I will have you transferred for incompetency. If you give me-” his voice tightens further “- _any_ reason to doubt your sincerity towards our cause, I will blame your death on a musket misfire. Am I perfectly clear?”

Anger rises in Rey at his insinuation; it’s true that she’s technically a southerner, but so are all of the other recruits. So are plenty of Union soldiers. Despite the thudding of her heart, she finds herself meeting his gaze with steel in her own. 

“Perfectly,” she says quietly. “Sir.”

The captain considers her, eyes flitting between hers. “Good,” he says finally. “You will complete the tasks I outlined from now on. You will fetch me my meals. You will deliver dispatches. If you displease me, I will use your corpse as kindling.” He says these last words with a flat affect, like he’s commenting on the weather.

“Yes, sir,” Rey repeats.

“Fine,” he says brusquely. “Now get me my breakfast.” He kicks the spilled cup. “And make me more coffee.”

\---

It’s good, in a way, that Rey knows that Ren hates her; it helps put the following week in perspective.

Ren keeps Rey away from his side as much as humanly possible, which would be a blessing, if he didn’t give her such terrible tasks to complete. One day, he hands her a sealed dispatch for a Colonel D. Willetts. Rey wanders for hours and miles through the army ranks asking after that name; finally, a fellow adjutant takes pity on her and says they’ve never heard of the Colonel. Rey nods, huddles up in a corner, and rips the envelope open: the message is blank.

Another day, Ren “loans” her to an artillery battalion to help with the butchering of horses. As it turns out, the great plow horses that haul Union cannons have a life expectancy of under a year. A great sacrifice of the beasts, in the winter, necessitates dismembering and relocating the bodies where they won’t stink or cause infection after the thaw. Rey smells like death for days afterwards, and the sight of beef stew makes her stomach churn.

More often, Ren’s cruelty is casual. He’ll pour out the coffee that Rey has prepared right onto her boots, as if daring her to dodge the boiling heat. He never gives her leave to sit in his presence, sometimes leaving her standing for almost an hour while he peruses a message or writes out a reply. He still hasn’t bothered to learn her name, either; Rey’s heard him refer to her as “the Rebel” when speaking to others. Or “half-wit.” Or “cur.”

She, for her part, bears the torment in silence, quietly completing the chores as best as she can. Plutt treated her badly as well, after all; she’s used to sending her anger down deep, pouring it into a well with a tightly fit lid. She curses the captain silently, coldly, nursing her hate where she keeps all her secrets. She makes it a challenge to make herself ice when the captain is fire, to restrain herself when he erupts in emotion. Ren seems to be watching her with mismatched eyes, waiting to pounce on any reaction. Rey refuses to give him that satisfaction. She refuses to be weak or wanting, despite his best efforts.

The chores are exhausting, at least, which helps Rey fall asleep in spite of the freezing cold weather. All around her, soldiers are constructing their winter huts, and meanwhile her threadbare dog tent only provides a roof and one wall against the elements. Rey bundles herself in her soft blanket and her tarred blanket, but the cold still seeps into her bones every night. It makes her look forward to building Ren’s fire each morning, as much as she despises being close to the man.

“Good morning, sir,” she says without fail every dawn as he stomps out of his tent.

The captain just glares at her. If he’s slept even less than usual- the red rims around his eyes bleeding into dark circles- she might earn herself a terse “go to hell.” 

“Is that an order?” Rey mutters one morning, half under her breath.

“ _What?”_

“Nothing, sir,” she says, louder. She mentally pinches herself for the slipup, bending close to the fire, feeding it twigs. She smiles privately a few minutes later at the sound of the captain kicking over a chair in his ire. The kick wasn’t aimed towards her, at least. That’s progress.

From their brief interactions, Rey learns that the captain is just as unpleasant as she assumed every soldier would be. His temper is unwaveringly, terrifyingly, short. He gulps down huge quantities of coffee and rarely sleeps, which does nothing to improve his mood. During drills, he’s as likely to correct a man’s posture with the butt of his musket as he is with a withering shout; Rey understands better, now, why his voice was so hoarse when she met him. And of course, there are his terrible scars: violence made manifest. Nobody likes to look him full in the face, and least of all Rey. But as the days pass, Rey is already resigning herself to this fate. There might be worse captains, perhaps, though it’s hard to imagine. The captain is cruel, but Rey is a survivor. 

Kylo Ren is just one more thing to survive. 

\---

Near the end of her second week with Company K, the captain doesn’t send Rey away in the morning. He peels off his coat and throws it at her instead.

Rey startles and catches it, body tensed up.

“There’s a hole under the arm,” Ren grumbles. “Fix it.”

Rey glances down at the fabric bunched in her hands. It’s a huge coat for such a huge man; she can already tell she’d be swimming in it. “Do you have a needle?” she asks cautiously.

“Someone will,” says the captain, waving his hand. He sits on one of the makeshift chairs and scrapes his hand over his collar, idly itching the gouge at his throat. There’s none of the usual bite to his words, and Rey flicks her eyes warily over him, trying to figure out why. The man looks exhausted; his black hair is matted under his cap, and his facial hair unevenly spills over his cheeks. No one in Company K cares too much for appearance, but their captain might possibly care the least. Which makes sense, really; it’s not like he’s going to distract anyone from his face.

“I’ll find thread and return?” Rey says, unintentionally lilting to make it a question. Ren just grunts, so she takes that as a yes. She throws a quick salute and heads towards central camp.

Rey finds herself oddly motivated by this mundane task. There’s nothing about mending a rip that’s unpleasant or impossible to do; she could actually accomplish this thing for the captain, maybe edging herself into his good graces. That prospect unconsciously speeds up her step, and she finds herself wracking her brains for any infantrymen who might own a needle. Rey didn’t join the army to make friends, but she’s starting to recognize some of the faces in Company K. One hulking man, Cardeaux, is a sergeant she’s never heard speak, but he does have an impressively large pack of supplies. That seems like a promising start.

“Beg your pardon,” Rey says, approaching the firepit where Cardeaux now sits. The sergeant looks up at her slowly; he’s sitting on a log, whittling what looks like a pipe. His heavy black beard nearly covers his face, leaving only his beady eyes peering at her. “I’m in search of a needle and thread,” Rey says firmly. “Do you have either?”

Cardeaux tilts his head, but he doesn’t reply. Rey repeats herself loudly: “a needle and thread!” That gets no response, so she hefts up Ren’s jacket and mimes sewing it.

_“Pour Ren?”_ asks Cardeaux.

“Yes, Ren,” Rey repeats, seizing onto that word with relief. Nevermind that she doesn’t know what else he said. She shakes out the captain’s jacket, furnishing proof that it’s his size and has his rank stripes. “Needle and thread for Ren.”

Cardeaux clicks his tongue. _“Attends,”_ he says thickly. He gets up and strolls back towards his hut and Rey waits uncertainly, not sure if she’s been dismissed or told to stay. The sergeant ducks inside and Rey eyes him with envy; the structure Cardeaux is bunked in is stockaded already, with wooden walls to keep out the elements and the original tent perched on top.

A few moments later, just before Rey decides to move on, Cardeaux reappears with a needle and spindle of thread. The heavyset man walks back up to Rey and pushes his offerings onto the bundle of captain Ren’s coat.

“Thank you,” Rey says sincerely, hoping the sergeant will understand that. Cardeaux only nods and sits down on his log with a thump. 

Back at Ren’s tent, the captain himself is flipping listlessly through the pages of a book. He’s wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and moved close to the fire, coatless against the January wind.

“Took you long enough,” he growls, tossing the book on the ground.

“Sorry sir,” says Rey stiffly, not sorry at all. Only yesterday, the bastard had volunteered her for the midnight guard shift, and she’d spent hours pacing the frozen ground, shivering. “May I sit?” she asks boldly.

Ren only grunts. Rey lifts an eyebrow; he _must_ be exhausted.

Carefully, half expecting some kind of trap, Rey seats herself on a hardtack crate by the table. From this position, she can keep one eye on the captain where he sits by the fire, even if he seems more cold than explosive. Once situated, Rey spreads out the coat on the table and hunts for the rip; like Ren said, there’s a gap under the arm where the stitches have snapped half a foot. Rey’s nostrils flare as she gets a good whiff of the fabric before her; it seems that the coat has been washed just as little as the captain himself.

A thump rouses Rey from her investigation. Looking up, she sees that the captain has laid himself down on the ground by the fire, still wrapped in his blanket. Her brow creases uncertainly.

“Should I leave, captain?” She glances down at the rip. “This may take some time.”

Ren shifts, the simple movement somehow dismissive. “Carry on,” he says gruffly. “Wake me if you need.” He shoots her a glare. “But don’t have a need.”

With that, he pulls his cap down low over his face and folds his hands over his chest. Rey looks at him, a little unnerved, for another few seconds. She debates reminding him that there’s a perfectly good tent set up behind him...then sighs lightly and returns to her work.

It’s actually peaceful under the awning, with the captain asleep...or trying to sleep, anyway. The mending is a mild and repetitive task, and Rey’s mind wanders freely. She enjoys the faint sound of the birds from the forest and the dull rumble of camp as the men cycle through chores. She can hear the captain’s breathing echoing slightly, repetitively, off of the leather visor of his cap. It feels like she’s alone for the first time in weeks, and it makes the stressed cramp in her chest finally ease. Rey settles more comfortably onto her crate and takes on a more leisurely pace with her sewing. Without consciously thinking of it, she begins softly humming under her breath.

The tune Rey chooses is “Shenandoah,” a reliable favorite for a Virginia girl. Even humming, Rey’s tone is sweet; she adds on to the melody as her heart desires, mind drifting back to the quieter days on Plutt’s farm. When Plutt wasn’t at home, of course. When she sat on the porch, long hair blown in the breeze, and did her own mending to the soft sound of the chickens wandering the yard. Rey is so lost in those thoughts, she starts singing aloud the next verse. She makes it halfway through before the captain shifts abruptly where he lays on the ground. Rey freezes immediately, remembering too late that the brute is _right_ _there_.

Ren lifts the cap from his face and squints up at her, groggy. “That was you singing?” he rumbles.

Rey mentally curses herself. All her stress has returned, and redoubled. “Ah, yes, sir.”

Ren keeps his gaze on her, both eyes now re-opening. His white-gray sliced eye seems to pierce through its clouds, staring at her for longer than is strictly comfortable. Maybe her voice is too high for a boy? Rey reflexively scratches at her bare cheeks, trying to cover the soft line of her jaw, the way that stubble isn’t even close to gracing her skin.

“Carry on,” he says finally. Rey could sag with relief, but she keeps her back stiff and just bends her head over her task. She’s only been working a few silent moments before an annoyed grunt comes from the blanket.

“All of it, private,” the captain says flatly. When Rey only tilts her head at him, confused, the man frowns in annoyance. “Keep _singing_ ,” he growls.

Rey looks blankly at him, hoping that she misheard. Singing is one of the few simple pleasures she’s had to herself, and she doesn’t want to taint that with Ren. But she also doesn’t want to lose her position by displeasing the captain. Those two instincts war within her for the length of a breath, and then Rey decides. Reluctantly, quietly, she starts softly singing the first verse again.

_Oh Shenandoah, I long to see you_

_Away you rolling river..._

She peeks up from her stitching and sees that the captain has reclined again with his cap back over his face. Relieved, Rey continues her work with more urgency, hoping to end this ordeal. The tunes flow so easily, though: first “Shenandoah,” then “Aura Lee,” then an instrumental reel she remembers from harvest. By the time she knots the last stitch on Ren’s coat, Rey’s genuinely surprised to find herself here, a few paces away from the captain.

Kylo Ren is asleep, lightly snoring.

Rey stares down at him. She thinks, for a moment, that she should wake him. Then she thinks she should kick embers onto his blanket to set him aflame. She even thinks, oddly, of draping the coat over him to compound his warmth. But she settles on leaving the coat on the table and stealthily sneaking away from his tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! It's been a wild ride out of the gate with this fic, but I'm so happy to finally be updating it. This is my first fic where Kylo is really an asshole, so it was a fine needle to thread (heh) making him nasty here but also leaving some room for future canoodling. Is hate-canoodling a thing?
> 
> I've written lots of bits for this fic and by far my favorite idea has been that the 5 company sergeants are stand-ins for the Knights of Ren (there are 6 in SW canon, but only 5 in army canon, sadly). We'll get a little more into why Cardeaux was speaking French, but Cardeaux = [Cardo](https://www.sideshow.com/geek/star-wars-who-are-the-knights-of-ren-names-and-profiles-revealed/). His first phrase meant "For Ren?" and his second one, "attends," is French for "wait."
> 
> I don't have formal reference notes for this chapter, but I've been reading a Union soldier memoir called "Hardtack & Coffee" that's chock full of facts about winter tents and the...unfortunately very real...task of butchering horses. The author also talks about how everyone tried to get out of roll call by going to the latrines, so I swear my poop jokes are canon!
> 
> So many thanks to everyone who's already read, commented, and given kudos to this work! It's so encouraging, and I appreciate you all <3


	3. The Bad Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kylo's Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New moodboard [HERE](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EeI_oyJXgAE8PC3?format=jpg&name=4096x4096)
> 
> Head's up- there's a physical fight and some threats of violence in this chapter.

The next morning Rey heads towards Ren’s tent with a nervous buzz in her blood. She hasn’t seen the captain since his impromptu nap the previous day, though she’d left him his dinner on the camp table and lingered a little before taps. Rey doesn’t expect that the captain’s belligerence will improve just because of a song and a coat, but she hopes it might make even a miniscule difference. He’d been more lenient with her yesterday than he’d been in the two prior weeks combined. For  _ once _ , it seemed, she’d done something that pleased him. Or at least, she thought that  _ perhaps _ she had pleased him. 

_ And  _ perhaps _ hell could freeze, _ she mocks herself wryly.

Rey can hear Ren rustling inside of his tent as she makes her way under the awning. She ignores him for now, dutifully walking to the small pile of wood stacked to dry near the fire pit. She’s pulled a few logs into her arms when a cough interrupts her...but it comes from behind.

“Message for the captain,” a man’s voice announces. Rey turns and sees a portly young man with brown hair and a dark bushy beard. She’s seen him somewhere before- his name might be Wexley. 

“From Company B?” Rey asks searchingly, trying to place the other aide.

“That’s right,” he says cheerfully. He has some kind of brash northern accent, but he doesn’t seem taken aback by Rey’s southern lilt. 

Wexley extends a sealed letter towards her. “It’s for Ren,” he repeats. “If he has a reply, just bring it to Dameron, or come looking for me.” He shoots a glance over at Ren’s tent, then looks back at Rey and silently winks. “We aides ought to stick together.”

Rey’s lips curl up slightly; she feels a brief flicker of warmth even from this brief friendliness.

“I’ll do that,” she says, hefting wood in one arm and taking the letter.

Wexley sets off, whistling. Captain Ren emerges a few moments later; he tromps to his table and sits down heavily on a crate, not looking at Rey. 

“Good morning, sir,” she says cautiously.

The captain just grunts. He’s otherwise silent. 

Rey lingers a moment...for what?  _ Thank you _ , for the mended coat he’s now wearing?  _ Thank you _ , for the dark circles that don’t carve so vividly under his eyes? Perhaps a “good morning” in return?

She might as well wait for the war to end.

Rey takes a deep breath. “There’s a dispatch for-”

“I heard,” he says cuttingly, raising one open hand for the letter.

Dark anger flares in Rey’s chest, but she shoves it below where the rest of her feelings bubble and hiss. She drops the letter into Ren’s hand so she won’t have to touch him, then stalks back to the fire pit. She gets down on her knees with a thump and starts arranging logs for the captain’s campfire, internally damning the man at the table. All she needs, practically speaking, is for Ren to give her fewer and more reasonable tasks. The two of them don’t have to be friendly for that to happen, just not blatantly hateful. Rey casts about in her mind for something, some way she can prove herself useful and move towards that goal. She glances back up at the captain and works up the courage to ask:

“Would you like me to read you the dispatch, sir?”

Ren is still breaking the seal on the message. “What?” he asks faintly, distracted.

“The dispatch, sir,” Rey says more loudly, warming up to her idea. “I could read it, so you don’t have to strain your bad eye.”

The captain’s back stiffens. He stops opening the letter.

“Bad eye?” he says softly.

_ Oh, no. _

Slowly,  _ very  _ slowly, Ren turns his mangled face towards Rey. The gray, half-sliced eye stares out from his skull.

“ _ What _ bad eye?” he growls.

Rey’s words die on her lips. It  _ is _ sightless, isn’t it?

Ren turns his head back, nostrils flaring. With a violent spasm, he crushes the letter and starts ripping it into small pieces. “Private,” he says, his voice tight. “I think it is best that you and your-” his voice spirals louder, furious “- _ observations  _ would serve me best in the middle of the-” he’s roaring now “- _ fucking woods _ where I cannot hear them.”

To her credit, Rey gamely waits for a command.

“ _ Now _ ,” Ren thunders, and Rey snaps to her feet. “That’s an order!”

“But where should I-”

“Firewood, private! Cut the whole forest down and good riddance.”

There’s an axe leaning up by the tent for that express purpose, but it’s unfortunately closer to Ren than to her. Rey takes a step forward but the captain preemptively launches onto his feet.

“No, no, allow me,” he snarls. Ren yanks the axe out of the ground, moving stiffly with rage like a wet cat. He turns to face her. 

“Hold,” Ren commands, and Rey freezes in place. To her horror, the captain hefts the axe into a throwing stance; he cocks his head, then deliberately shuts his good eye.

Rey has just enough time to fear for her life before Ren flings the axe towards her. She hears the air shift with its passage, feels her gut clench as her bowels tighten with nerves. Rey flinches at the resulting  _ thud,  _ but through sheer iron will doesn’t step out of place. It’s for the best that she doesn’t, as the axe blade now quivers just between her boots.

Ren re-opens his good eye and squints at the trembling axe. 

“Do you think I missed, private?” he asks icily.

Rey won’t take the bait. She takes a deep breath and grabs the axe handle instead, tugging it out of the ground with some effort. Rey turns tail and briskly marches off into the woods, leaving the captain alone with his wounded pride.

\---

Murderous captains aside, it turns out that being at war is a very dull venture, at least in the winter. Army life has a dependable rhythm to it that Rey can appreciate after her months on the streets of D.C.. Here, food is always served after the bugle. Here, she is called to rise with the sun. Here, her miserable tent is still standing, night after night, when she throws herself down to shiver and sleep. It’s not a luxurious life by any stretch of the mind, but it’s one that Rey can somewhat rely on. She’s even getting  _ paid  _ to put up with Ren, though she’s heard that her monthly allowance isn’t likely to reach her pockets anytime soon.

“You get it every two months if you’re lucky,” a veteran had bitched to the new recruits. “Every four months if you’re not.”

Another worn man had spat into the fire. “If you die you don’t get it at all,” he’d rasped, chuckling. “And then your little lady’s the lucky one, eh?”

A lot of the men, Rey has found, have wives or sweethearts back at home. Many of them have some kind of feminine keepsake hidden on their person: a lock of hair curled in a bracelet, a portrait, some old scrap of lace.

“This one still smells like ‘er cunny,” one soldier lamented at dinner, tracing a piece of white cloth in his hand.

“Give ‘er here, Jessie!”

“Give you two dollars for that, once I’m paid!”

“Hands off!” Jess had shouted, refusing to be jostled. “I ain’t selling ‘til I got a replacement,” he sulked. Then his eyes had gone dreamy. “There’s a ginger whore camped out near A who might do…”

Rey had hunched over and glowered into her cup of soup, willing herself to become invisible. She’d known that men like to talk about women, but the soldiers of Company K are practically bards on the subject of the fairer sex. Rey is nearly a scholar by now on the subject of whores and wives and their various assets; she knows how much to pay and how soon to run. She’s also, to hear the men tell it, surrounded by the best-endowed soldiers this army can boast. Rey’s not too certain of that, but she’s taken to stuffing her crotch with a lump of old cloth both to emulate them and to shield her poor cunt from all the discussion.

It’s easier than she’d expected to hide, even in the midst of an army of men. Yes, her stomach still lurches whenever she has to speak, but in practice Rey only speaks rarely. She skips roll call in the morning to build up Ren’s fire and brew him his coffee. While the infantry drills, Rey tackles whatever ridiculous mission Ren dreams up to vex her. In the evenings, she huddles alone in her tent or drifts like a ghost near the edge of the other men’s fires. It isn’t...well,  _ lonely,  _ exactly _.  _ Rey doesn’t get lonely. She wouldn’t get lonely. Perhaps it’s just lonesome to think that the most words she trades are with Ren, a man who has all but stated he hates her.

“He grows on ya,” one veteran says while they’re waiting in line for their soup.

_ Like a goiter _ , Rey thinks. But she only silently shrugs.

\---

A few mornings after the axe incident, Rey creeps out from under her pitiful tent with a sore back and near-frosted fingers. The captain is already awake at his campsite, wearing a trail through the dirt under his awning. Rey can tell at a glance that this will not be a good day; Ren’s expression is set in an almost comically grotesque scowl, his scars rippling over his skull like furrows plowed by a drunken farmer. 

“You’re late,” he snaps immediately, his head twisting hawkishly towards her.

“Reveille only just sounded, sir,” Rey says quickly.

“If I’m up and you’re not, then you’re  _ late.” _

“I-” Rey swallows her frustration, redirects “-would you like your coffee, sir?”

“No, I don’t want any thrice-damned coffee,” he growls. Ren’s muscles surge as he paces; Rey watches his fists warily, recognizing the growing storm of a man in search of a target. The captain’s hand twitches up towards his face, then forcibly stops.

“Get me a bottle of whiskey from the quartermaster,” he demands abruptly. “Not the piss that  _ he  _ drinks, I want the officers’ scotch.”

Rey glances over at the still-rising sun. “Right now?”

“Yes, right now!” the captain shouts. His red-ringed eyes glare crazily at her, both the black and the gray; she would hazard a guess that he hasn’t slept.

Rey internally curses her loose lips. “Sorry, sir-”

His hand twitches again. “Always sorry.”

“I’m-” 

Rey cuts herself off before she can apologize more, but Ren halts and growls in utter frustration. Rey subtly braces herself for a blow. Instead, the captain finally raises his hand to his face and rakes his gloved fingers over his scars.

“This whore-sucking  _ itch _ ,” he mutters, scratching vigorously.

Rey knows she should leave, but she’s a bit fascinated in spite of herself. Assuming the rumors are true and these scars are from Fredericksburg, Ren’s only been wounded for just a few weeks; the ugly gouges are still healing, and apparently not healing well. It becomes apparent  _ why,  _ when Ren abruptly stops with a hiss and pulls back his hand. He looks down at his glove, now beaded with blood. Rey watches more trickle in a slow, ugly trail down his face where he’s scratched the deepest trough open again.

The captain’s chest swells with a very deep breath. He closes his fist with a slow, cold precision more chilling than fury and looks over at Rey.

“Get me my sergeants,” he says evenly. But his eyes nearly radiate murder.

Rey whips around and trots off before he can unleash that anger on her. She finds Cardeaux quickly enough, still yawning and pulling his suspenders on. After some frantic miming and repetition of “Ren,” Cardeaux seems to get the gist and he summons the rest of the sergeants: Trugenne, Appleque, Quruque, and Oushar. All of them are large, solidly built men, and it does give Rey a brief moment of amusement to see them all crawl, one after another, out of the same makeshift hut. They don’t seem surprised that the captain needs them at this ungodly hour. 

Hux, of course, isn’t pleased.

“And I suppose I’m to gather the soldiers myself?” he calls after them, his hands on his hips. Cardeaux shrugs, which seems to speak for them all. They keep walking with Rey, ignoring the lieutenant’s shrill scoff behind them.

Captain Ren is pacing again as their party approaches, and dread refills Rey’s belly just at the sight of him. As soon as he spots them, Ren shrugs off his coat and rolls up his shirtsleeves in motions gone quick with anger and impatience. Rey feels the sergeants tense subtly around her; they’re not nervous like she is, but they’re prepared for  _ some _ thing as they come to a stop across from their captain.

“Three,” Ren says brusquely, and launches himself at Cardeaux.

Rey gasps.

Cardeaux, however, merely braces himself as though he were expecting this. His broad body absorbs the impact of Ren’s shoulder slamming against his, though his feet slide back a full pace in the dirt. Then he crouches and returns the grapple. 

Rey looks frantically back at the sergeants. Oushar and Trugenne step forward, Appleque and Quruque step back. Oushar takes a long look at the two wrestling men: the captain is furiously hammering Cardeaux’s ribs while the big man tries to force him into a chokehold. Oushar lunges to grab Ren around the waist from behind and Trugenne makes a dive for Ren’s legs. The captain curses and topples, taking the other three down with him onto the ground. Ren’s back arches and Rey catches a glint of his dark eye before he gets buried again. Powdered snow starts to fly and Rey jumps back instinctively as a pair of legs kick out from the tangle towards her. 

She turns and grabs Quruque by the arm urgently. “Stop them!” she pleads, looking up at the craggy-faced man.

Quruque only shrugs, his arms crossed. “‘E said t’ree,” he says in deep, heavily accented English.

Rey stares up at him, then back down at the fight. Ren has somehow pulled loose from Cardeaux and Trugenne and now punches Oushar squarely in the gut; he lets out a wild whoop of pleasure on contact and Rey feels her jaw drop. Ren is not only  _ enjoying _ the violence, it seems; he’d actually  _ requested _ three sergeants to pummel.

As if she needed further confirmation, Ren grabs Trugenne by the throat and calls “Four!” over his shoulder. Quruque uncrosses his arms and cracks his knuckles, then jumps forward and pulls Cardeaux back onto his feet. The two of them grab Ren from under his arms and bodily haul the huge captain off of Trugenne. Oushar takes the occasion to headbutt his commanding officer.

Rey, meanwhile, is frozen in place by the spectacle. She’s caught between horror and outrage at the stupidity of men.  _ This  _ is the army of brutes she had expected.  _ This  _ is the dumb violence that powers the war. She can’t even deny its pull on her own heart; part of Rey glows as she watches the fight, responding to the wet smack of muscle against muscle, the dull grunts of pain, the  _ power  _ on display. It heats her blood more than she would like, and she shifts uncomfortably.

Three of the sergeants have now wrestled Ren onto his feet and hold him in place. Trugenne aims a powerful punch at the captain’s good eye and Rey winces as it lands, her hand flying up to her mouth. Ren only grins slackly, his teeth wet with blood.

“Five,” he spits out.

Appleque enters the fray with another hard punch to Ren’s face; Rey can see the flesh starting to swell and close up the good eye, leaving the captain effectively blind. Appleque punches the same spot once more for good measure. The captain sways, but somehow doesn’t fall. All five sergeants step back in a loose circle around Ren and look at him warily, like coyotes circling stubborn prey.

The captain stands blind and battered, his shirt ripped at the collar and blood streaking his face, but under the lumps his expression is practically cheerful. He cocks his head as though listening, aiming his gray eye out towards the sergeants. When Oushar lunges towards him, Ren catches him first and throws the man over. He also manages to duck and return a punch from Cardeaux. Then all five other men rush at him all at once; Ren lets them come. He’s caught from behind, pummeled from the front, and through it all he even  _ laughs _ out loud. The sound makes Rey’s neck hairs stand on end. But even the beast can’t take such a beating for long.

“ _ Arrêt _ ,” pants the captain at last, breathing hard where he hangs between two of his sergeants. He pats Appleque on the back, almost friendly, and everyone’s stance subtly shifts. “Dismissed.”

The sergeants linger long enough to deposit their battered captain onto a crate with many claps to the back. Rey watches with wide eyes, half-believing she’s hallucinated this whole ridiculous thing. The sergeants are a little banged up, but nothing so serious as to require the infirmary. Ren trades a few more unknown words with his men, then blindly waves them away. The five men walk back towards central camp just as casually as they had come, unaffected. Rey can hear their strange language dissolving into the distance.

“They’re all Mainers, you know,” Ren says, and Rey jumps. The captain is bent forward on his makeshift seat, resting his head in his hands, but he seems to know she’s still there. “Got accents thicker than an ox’s ass. Their French is bad but their English is worse.” He frowns, then spits blood on the ground.

“And they’re...not in trouble?” Rey asks dubiously. “For hitting their captain?”

“That was training,” Ren shrugs. He sits up with a small groan, experimentally twisting his neck.

Rey just eyes her captain. In contrast to only half an hour ago, Ren’s whole body seems almost boneless, relaxed. His split lips bleed steadily, but his voice is the mildest she’s ever heard it. Rey makes a mental note to herself to punch Ren the next time she needs him calmed down.

“Should I get you your whiskey?” she asks warily.

“No,” Ren says, gingerly shaking his head. “Water, please.”

Rey’s eyebrows leap up. She’s never heard the captain say ‘please’ before; he must be punch-drunk. Rey carefully unslings her canteen from her shoulder and walks towards Ren. Once she’s within an arm’s length, Rey uncaps the canteen with a loud pop and holds it out towards him.

He doesn’t reach for it. 

Rey takes another step forward and jostles the canteen, making it slosh. Ren makes that strange, birdlike motion he often does, swivelling his head on his neck so his gray eye faces her. Rey feels pinned under its swirling gaze.

“Can you see where I am?” she asks carefully. She thinks back to the unfortunate ax throwing incident.

Ren’s lips tighten slightly. “I can see shadows,” he says. “Where there’s light and there’s not.” He lifts his hand, pointing eerily straight towards her heart.

“I can’t see your canteen,” he says quietly. “Only you.”

“Oh,” Rey says dumbly. The rising sun’s rays are warm on her back; she must seem a black pillar against a white sky.

“It’s not a  _ bad _ eye,” Ren adds darkly, still pointing at her. 

Rey lets out a breath. “No, sir,” she says simply. “I suppose that it’s not.”

Ren nods briskly and straightens somewhat on the crate, a little of his usual presence returning. “Hand me the canteen,” he commands.

Rey takes another step closer and guides the canteen into Ren’s open hand; she sees it twitch in surprise on contact, then grip closed. He blindly brings it up to his lips and takes a long swallow, both his eyes closing.

“You’ve got blood on your face,” Rey says, watching him.

Ren brings the canteen back down with a wet smack of his lips. “So?” he says flatly, wiping his mouth.

Rey struggles with the same question. Why does she care?

“Your cuts might get infected,” Rey says, landing on a probable answer. “They’ll fester and itch if they do.”

Ren bristles, face falling back into its usual scowl. Rey clenches her fists at her side, hoping he doesn’t lash out at her now. She’s just seen how vicious this man can be; she’s not looking to make herself the sixth punching bag. 

“Fine,” he says instead, taking her by surprise. He peevishly pushes the canteen back out towards Rey, narrowly missing her gut. Then tersely: “Be quick about it.”

Rey’s eyes go wide, realizing too late that she’s set herself up. Ren can’t literally  _ see  _ to his own wounds right now. Something like panic bubbles in her gut.

“I could take you to the infir-”

“No.” The word comes out harsh from his lips. “I’m not going there,” he adds tightly.

Rey swallows and nods even though the gesture is lost on him. “Yes, sir,” she adds softly. He nods and it’s settled: she’ll be tending his wounds. 

Rey has no desire to touch Ren’s bare skin; the thought of it- the thought of touching  _ anyone _ else- makes her own skin crawl. Instead, she casts her gaze around for some kind of wash cloth to act as a barrier. For lack of better options, Rey reaches up to her neck and unties her kerchief; it’s not hospital clean, but she did wash it this week. She takes her canteen back from Ren’s hand and splashes water onto the faded cloth, then balefully looks towards Ren’s face. There’s blood spattered across his lips and his beard, plus a cut over his swollen good eye. Mostly, red streaks of the stuff dribble over his trough where he scratched it this morning. The wound’s only partially scabbed at this point, and he’s gotten dirt in the cuts from his fight. 

_ It’ll be a quick wash,  _ Rey tells herself, trembling. She musters her courage and lifts the wet cloth to his opened scar first. 

Ren hisses and retracts his head like a snake.

“Sorry,” Rey mutters, too late. “I’m- starting with that side first.”

The captain’s jaw twists. Then he nods gruffly, but he doesn’t move his head any closer. Rey internally sighs and takes one more step forward, trying not to brush against his long legs.

This time, when the wetted cloth touches his face, Ren stiffens, but he doesn’t shift. Rey wants to move quickly but doesn’t, worried that he’ll snap her in half if she causes him pain by rushing. She swipes the kerchief along his scar, cleaning the blood and some traces of half-frozen dirt. Up close, the gouges are uglier than ever: raw and half-scabbed, the flesh toughened and stiff. Rey wants to pretend this isn’t a human face, but that’s hard to do with Ren’s gray eye staring directly at her. She hates the look of its swirling clouds, the delicate bulge of strange substance crowding the cut on the eye. The sight makes her shiver.

“You needn’t do it,” Ren snaps, turning his head away. Too late, Rey realizes they’re close enough for him to sense her disgust.

“I can-”

“No,” he says bluntly. He blindly glares down at the ground, his face dark with anger. Surely just anger, not...Rey blinks, and what looks like shame is gone from his battered face as if it never was. “Give me the rag.”

Relief and a strange disappointment war in her gut. Silently, Rey dribbles clean water onto the kerchief and hands it over to Ren. She clenches her fists shut and watches him carelessly wipe it across his own face, mostly just smearing the blood.

“Fine,” he says, as if settling the matter. He drops her kerchief on the ground. He starts to stand and immediately lists to the side. Rey instinctively steps forward to grab one of his arms, slowing him down just enough that he can steady himself. He’s  _ heavy. _

“Let go,” Ren hisses, shaking her off.

Rey takes a step back, hands landing on her hips as she glares up at him.

“Where’s your tent, then?” she retorts, forgetting her place for a moment.

Ren pauses. He turns his head sightlessly, as though he can smell out his tent.

“Behind me?” he asks tentatively.

“Yes,” Rey admits. She takes a few steps around him and closer to his tent, watching him. The captain’s head moves semi-blindly to follow her progress.

“Follow my voice,” Rey commands.

Ren purses split lips. She can plainly see that he resents both her aid and authority, much as he resented her help with the cloth. On the other hand, he’s likely to fall flat on his face without her help now. They stand at an impasse, hurt pride and annoyance bubbling between them. Then Ren takes a step towards her voice.

“Another,” Rey says, surprise and satisfaction mingling in her breast.

One step at a time, Rey directs the captain forward until he’s close enough to his tent that he can reach out and touch the door flaps himself. At that point he lowers himself down with a small groan, crawling into the shelter. Rey peers after him to make sure that he’s landed correctly, then looks quickly away as he begins to unbutton his shirt. She starts to retreat.

“Halt,” Ren calls. It’s a small thing, but now that he’s back in his tent, he’s back in control. Rey obeys him but averts her eyes. Several breaths later, Ren’s balled up shirt slaps against her thigh. Rey looks down at it, frowning.

“Fix it,” says the captain, laying down on his blankets. Rey gets a quick glimpse of pale skin as he wraps himself up. She exhales through her nose and bends down to pick up the shirt, already seeing the tear at the collar that needs to be stitched.

“I’ll bring it back when I’m done,” Rey says absently. She wonders if Cardeaux will lend her his needle and thread once again.

“No,” Ren says simply.

Rey looks up in annoyance. “What, sir?”

Ren seems absorbed with adjusting his blankets. “Bring a crate and work by the door,” he says, more like a mutter.

Rey’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Alright.”

“Good.”

Rey keeps watching. The captain keeps fidgeting. She feels like she’s stepping out onto thin ice, but some instinct makes her ask slowly: “Won’t it bother you if I start humming?”

His movements still under the blankets. “No,” he says gruffly. “It won’t bother me.” Then, even more gruffly: “Go get your thread.”

  
Rey nods, but a small, stealthy smile crosses her face.  _ Perhaps _ the captain will have use for her yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, wow, Kylo likes getting hit? He works out his frustration through extreme physicality? I wonder if that will play into future chapters at all...
> 
> In all seriousness, Kylo is Not Nice/a Rather Violent Person, but violence is one of the themes of this fic and it's amped up here to make the gentleness that much more glaring in contrast. Sorry if that's not your cup of tea, but we are working our way towards some softness and smut! I'm touched and excited by all the wonderful reactions to the fic so far, and I really appreciate everyone who's been reading and hanging in there during the wait for this chapter. I had to totally overhaul the trajectory of the story and change some key details (e.g. Rey now was in D.C. instead of Richmond), and for this chapter alone I wrote four different false starts that could be chapters in their own right. All that being said, I'm pretty happy with how this came out and I hope to update it bi-weekly! Feel free to subscribe if you don't want to miss it <3
> 
> References  
> -Union infantrymen made [$13 dollars a month](https://civilwarhome.com/Pay.html#:~:text=Union%20privates%20were%20paid%20%2413,%3B%20and%20second%20lieutenants%2C%20%24105.50.)  
> -I'm a proud Mainer, and our backwoods accent is something else. I think it's fucking hilarious to make the KoR unintelligible lumberjacks. Maine has a rich French culture thanks to the settlers from France known as the Acadians. Fun fact within a fun fact: Cajuns in Louisiana are an offshoot of Acadians as you can tell from the very similar names and French cultures. More info [here.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_the_Acadians)


	4. The Stockade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Building walls, building feelings

A few days later, Rey curses Kylo Ren under her breath as she dents her shovel against the unyielding earth. The reddish Virginian clay has gone rock-solid with winter chill, but here she is, attempting to dig a latrine because the captain commanded her to.

“I like to have options,” he’d said simply that morning, as though that were reason enough. Nevermind that Rey had dug him a new one the previous day. Nevermind that there were plenty of company troughs to shit in. Nevermind that hacking a deep enough pit was a job normally given to small teams of men twice Rey’s size. 

A refusal had itched in Rey’s throat. She’d stared down at the captain where he sat on his crate, floored by the urge to hit him hard enough that the fading bruises from his “training” session would swell like balloons once again. The silence between them stretched long, and Ren shot her a sly look from under his cap.

Rey’s whole body had tensed. She  _ knew _ what the captain was looking for: a tell-tale crack, some sign of dissent. He’d been pushing her hard since the fight and its aftermath, burying his brief moment of weakness under utterly noxious behavior. After three days enduring his barbs, his tasks, and a whole pot of hot coffee thrown right at her head, Rey is quite nearly ready to give in to the anger he so clearly desires; she’d gladly trade that one slow afternoon, singing to him while he lay blind in his tent, for the freedom to cave in Ren’s skull. But she’ll be damned if she gives him that satisfaction. 

With not inconsiderable effort, Rey had forced her frustration to cool and aimed for a neutral tone. “Shall I refill the old latrine first, sir?”

A flicker of disappointment had passed over Ren’s face. Then the captain looked back down at his book, flipped a page.

“Keep it open,” he’d said sourly. “The odor should be stimulating.”

Hours later, and true to his word, Rey is breathing through her mouth so as not to inhale the captain’s defecation. It’s early afternoon and she can faintly hear the company running through drills in the orchard. She’s watched the company practicing forms on their own before, but has yet to see the combined battalion assemble. She’s yet to do much of anything, yet, since the captain keeps her occupied with these useless tasks. 

_ Ka-chunk. _

The point of Rey’s shovel bounces off a rock. The impact shivers her arm and she drops the tool, cursing  _ that man  _ once again. With nobody watching, Rey’s latent frustration starts roaring to life. It’s been  _ weeks _ since she first joined the army, and she hasn’t had time to review one single roster. It’s been  _ weeks _ of working for Ren, and every step forward with him takes a running leap back. It’s been  _ months _ of pretending to be a man, and her heart’s muscles feel strained from the constant deception. Rey just wants her breasts to hang loose, wants to bathe in a river, wants to take  _ one single leisurely shit _ , to stop feeling so tired and nervous and  _ frozen _ all of the damnable time.

Rey halts her train of self-pitying thought with great mental effort. Her fists clench at her sides and she closes her eyes, forcing herself to breathe in and out slowly. Her anger is like a wild horse being coaxed into a stable, but she’s up to the task. Calmness starts to descend, and her heartbeat slows.

Rey can do this.

She  _ has  _ to do this.

The old Rey might have been upset. The old Rey might have cried or just given up. But  _ she’s _ not the old Rey anymore. She cut off that life like her braid in the forest. She cut out that weakness as easy as slicing a knife through a neck.

And she did cut that neck.

Rey coolly opens both of her eyes once again. Her fingers absently reach up to rub the healed scar at her throat as she surveys the pit she’s been digging and the rock at its bottom.

The new Rey knows how to solve one of her problems, at least.

\---

Rey sneaks out of the woods some time later, hands and boots still stained red by the ferrous dirt. She doesn’t want Ren to know she’s done digging yet, so she exits the tree line further down from their camp, somewhere in the middle of Company F. She’s less than a mile away from her fellow infantrymen, but she might as well be in a whole different state. The soldiers of F are from Arkansas, and the ones from E come from Delaware. There’s a whole brigade- over one thousand men- camped a ways down the river who all hail from Philadelphia, and the artillerymen Rey butchered horses with all came up from Texas. The army of the Potomac has bankers and farmers and former schoolteachers. It’s got baptists and protestants and good Irish Catholics. 

It’s even got one cockless man, currently making her way towards the supply tents.

Rey reaches a depot about a mile out from Company K. She scopes it out slowly, taking in the huge bales of hay for the horses and the barrels of salted pork for the soldiers. Crates of hardtack are stacked in an ungainly pyramid off to the side; it looks like that’s where Ren might have gotten his makeshift chairs. A man is standing nearby with a list in his hand, and Rey approaches him with a deep breath.

“You the quartermaster?” Rey asks, pitching her voice somewhat low. She always overcompensates when meeting new people.

The thin, tidy man turns and surveys her, his weak chin swiveling somewhat. “Yes?” he says simply. His high voice is nasal and distinctly unfriendly.

Rey straightens a little. “I’m here for captain Ren,” she says calmly, “from company K.”

The quartermaster flinches, half-raising his list as though to hide behind it.

“Is he here?” he asks anxiously, eyes darting to the side. Rey works to contain a small smile; it’s gratifying to see someone else so affected by Ren.

“He’s not here,” she says smoothly. “Only, he asked for a wheelbarrow.”

The quartermaster settles somewhat. His slim fingers still twitch where they grip his paper, but this is familiar business for him. “Wheelbarrow?” he asks, cautious but doubtful. “We’ve only got a few for deliveries, you know…”

Rey can smell a refusal starting to brew. She raises her chin slightly, looking the quartermaster right in the eye.

“Captain Ren will be  _ most  _ displeased to hear that you couldn’t provide him with one.” She cocks her head, looking firmly at the man. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” the man says quickly. “It’s only. Well.” He hesitates, his weak chin wobbling. “Did he- captain Ren- say how long he needed it for?”

“Only the afternoon,” Rey says, perhaps a little too quickly. “I’ll bring it back when I’m done.” She mentally kicks herself. “When  _ he’s  _ done.”

The quartermaster straightens, fiddling with his paper. “Well,” he says slowly, “if it’s just for the afternoon, then. Perhaps we could part with one wheelbarrow.” He looks Rey up and down, then seems to decide. “Yes, he can have the one wheelbarrow.”

“And a bottle of whiskey,” Rey blurts out, surprising herself. “Not the piss that  _ you _ drink, the officer’s scotch.” She crosses her arms over her bound chest, outwardly confident and inwardly wondering how Ren’s exact words have stuck with her this long.

“Yes, and the scotch,” the man says peevishly. He looks at Rey with a meaningful glint in his eyes. “My name is Mitaka. You’ll tell captain Ren who did him this favor?”

“Of course, sir,” Rey says innocently. Mitaka just nods, then turns and starts walking off towards a small shed. 

“Come along,” he calls over his shoulder.

\---

The sun is low in the sky when the captain returns from the company’s drill, but he’s quick enough to ask Rey a question.

“What the hell are you doing?” he says, glaring down at her.

Rey looks up from her work, her hands caked in red clay. The captain hasn’t ever approached her little campsite before, but the thick tower she’s building  _ is _ rather eye-catching.

Rey wipes her hands on her blue pants, staining them. “I’m making a chimney,” she says carefully.

Ren snorts. The two of them look at Rey’s structure: large stones cemented in place by the thick red clay from the latrine. Rey had maneuvered Mitaka’s wheelbarrow over the slushy footpaths of the camp and into the woods to reclaim the rocks and the dirt she’d unearthed while digging. Now the treacherous stones are stacked in neat circles on top of each other, rising up in a chute. Rey has a bucket of water nearby that she used to moisten the clay and make it more spreadable; it fills in the chinks between rocks like a glue. So far the structure only rises four feet, but the sides are evenly built with one entrance for pushing in firewood.

“A chimney needs a house, the last time I checked,” sneers the captain. He seems unimpressed.

Rey gets to her feet...not that it puts her on eye level with him, but because it’s more respectful and she needs him to give her permission for this.

“I’m stockading my tent,” she declares, forcing herself to look into his eyes. “Most of the men have already, since we’re settled down for the winter. I’ll have the chimney done by tomorrow, and then I’ll start building the walls. I should be done in two days or so, working around any duties you give me.”

Ren only looks flatly at her, assessing. Rey lets a little more heat slip into her voice. “It’s only getting colder,” she says with growing annoyance, “and I’m no good to you if I freeze to death in the night.”

“That’s debatable.”

Rey stiffens her lips to keep from baring her teeth. “I brought you a bottle of scotch,” she grits out- her last gambit.

Ren’s good eyebrow raises; the other just hunches like a broken-backed bird.

“And when did you have time to get me some scotch,” he asks silkily. 

“After I dug your latrine, sir,” Rey rushes to add. “Just like you asked.” She tries to read his mangled expression and fails. “I’ll only use my own time to work on this, sir. I won’t shirk my duties.”

“Hm.” Ren purses his lips, looking at her. He lets the moment stretch out, then glances down at the chimney. Rey’s already marked out the floor of her stockade, and Ren kicks at it now.

“This how big it’ll be?”

“Yes,” Rey says warily. She’d lain in the snow and rolled over twice to get the width right, and added a foot to either end of the length.

“Make it bigger,” he says.

Rey’s brow creases in confusion. “Sir?”

Ren whips his head at her, instantly angry. “Are you deaf, rebel? Must I repeat every order?”

“No, sir,” Rey says with a careful inhale.

“Make it bigger again by half,” Ren barks.

Rey opens her mouth to protest- her dog tent can’t cover a base of that size- but thinks better of it at Ren’s glower. She is, after all, getting what she wants. Maybe she can stretch her tarred blanket over the top to cover the inevitable gap. 

“Yes, sir,” she says quietly.

“Good,” he says brusquely, then stomps back through the snow towards his tent.

\---

Constructing the stockade turns out to be a strange source of joy for Rey. She’d always had to work hard on Plutt’s farm, but the projects where she got to build were her favorites: extending the cellar, constructing a coop for the chickens. This is a similar process, but all the more satisfying because it’s all _hers._ It’s slow going to track down supplies for the hut, and tedious work putting it all together, but it makes her heart glow.

The chimney requires water from the river, and clay and rocks from its banks. The floor has to be dug a foot down into the ground for greater insulation, and she lines it with straightened staves from old salt pork barrels. The quartermaster, Mitaka, also grudgingly points Rey towards bits of old wood she can use for the walls of the hut. He lets her walk away from the depot with as many nails as she can pry loose from now-empty crates, as well as a hammer that’s perfectly fine aside from a somewhat loose head.

After a dozen visits to the river for mud, Rey becomes familiar with the sight of laundry ladies working along its banks. It’s strange seeing women-  _ real  _ women, as she thinks of them- the ones that wear skirts with long hair and high laughter. Rey knows that she looks like a young man with her own close-cropped hair and her tightly wrapped bosom. Some days she even feels like a man. Especially when the laundry ladies call out to her.

“Looking for something, laddie?” coos a red-headed woman with a bundle of linens under her arm.

Rey looks up from her wheelbarrow of mud, hands stained red and her cheeks flushing almost as dark at the appreciative look in the laundress’s eyes.

“Just working, ma’am,” she says gruffly, voice pitched extra low.

“Ooh, polite, aren’t you?” says the woman. She sways closer, bumping one hip so it curves out from her waist in a smooth, pleasant round. There’s much of the woman that’s pleasing and round. Rey forces her gaze up from the laundress’s breasts and onto her face.

“Your wife teach you how to act mannered?” the woman asks coyly. Rey can tell from her smile that she’s been caught looking.

“Don’t have a wife,” Rey says stiffly. Internally, she kicks herself for this stupid facade. The woman is...womanly, that’s all. Seems like she’d be soft and warm to the touch, and Rey hasn’t touched anyone in a long time. She’s never touched  _ anyone  _ in certain ways.

The laundry woman pouts. “That’s so sad,” she says. “Handsome boy like you.” She takes a step closer.

“I- got to go, ma’am,” Rey says hurriedly, picking up the handles of the wheelbarrow. “Nice talking to you.”

“I’ll see you around,” the woman had winked. Rey had just nodded and moved off at a trot, something hot and unpleasant churning deep in her stomach.

After moments like that, it’s calming to just work on the hut by herself. Rey assembles the walls of the hut cob-fashion, carefully cutting notches into each end of the wooden slats to fit them together. Once joined, the wood starts forming one sturdy wall, then another. Rey fills in the chinks with more of the mud, letting herself forget about winking women, or secrets, or Ren. Before she knows it, her structure starts rising up from the cold earth.

Rey sings to herself to pass the time, old favorites and new inventions alike. Some of the verses she develops about captain Ren are  _ not  _ to be sung in his presence, which means that she sings them less as he hangs about more. At first Rey thinks it’s spite that keeps the captain watching her work from his campsite. Then boredom, perhaps. Or maybe, a small part of her wonders, he stays for the music. Whatever the reason, he is wholly unwelcome.

“The southern wall’s crooked,” Ren shouts out at her.

It’s the second day, and Ren is ostensibly reading his book in the no man’s land between his own campsite and Rey’s construction site. Rey’s walls are almost three feet high at this point. Because of the sunken floor she dug into the earth, there’ll be enough height once the tent has been lofted for Rey to crouch in most places and stand hunched in the middle. And, as Ren says, the southern wall is somewhat crooked.

“I can manage,” Rey calls back, glaring at the tilted wood for betraying her.

“Clearly not,” snorts the captain.

Rey clenches her jaw and reminds herself for the thousandth time that she’ll be court martialed if she kills an officer. Even if said officer is wretched and hateful and steadily getting drunker off of a bottle of scotch.

Rey hates herself for bringing that bottle of scotch.

“What did you build the walls out of, hardtack?”

“Wood, sir,” Rey says between gritted teeth. “Old wagon parts.”

“ _ Scavenger _ ,” Ren says, derisive. “That’s how the rebels get all their supplies: picking them off of the battlefields after we’ve gone.” He takes a swig from the scotch, then wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand while glaring at his aide. “ _ You’re _ not even waiting until we’ve gone.” 

Rey presses her lips so firmly together it feels like they must have turned white. Her knuckles are definitely pale where they grip her borrowed hammer.

_ Why do you care?  _ she shouts at him in her mind.  _ Why don’t you just leave me alone? _

_ Because he’s the Devil _ , she answers herself. Rey has never met anyone else like captain Ren; after three weeks as his aide, she suspects it’s because anyone else like him has already been exorcised, imprisoned, or shot.

“Captain Ren!”

A jovial man’s voice cuts through Rey’s seething thoughts, a welcome distraction. Rey bends back over her work, shooting one stealthy glance towards the new voice. She glimpses a man in a crisp uniform, as well as Ren’s deepening scowl.

“What do you want?” the captain’s voice snarls.

“Well that’s a warm welcome,” the new voice replies, somehow still lighthearted. Rey sneaks another peek and notices the new man is wearing a captain’s coat. His dark hair is trimmed short with a natural wave; he looks rather dashing between that and his thin mustache and slight sideburns.

Captain Ren scowls up at him from his hardtack crate, bottle still in hand. “What,” he says starkly, “do you  _ want _ , Dameron?”

The new man ignores the question. “Is this your new aide?” he says, pointing at Rey. “Wexley mentioned the boy. What’s his name?” 

There’s silence from Ren, and Rey’s teeth start grinding anew. Three weeks of service, and the bastard still hasn’t asked for her name.

“You!” his voice calls. Rey straightens up.

Ren tilts his head towards Dameron, his gaze fixed on Rey. “Tell him your name.”

Rey stands up almost shyly, wiping her hands on her trousers. Now that she’s getting a real look at him, Rey feels a faint flutter in her belly at the warmth of Dameron’s easy smile. For a swift moment, a hard, hot kernel of her wishes  _ he  _ were her captain...before she stiffly reminds herself that Rey Johnson,  _ male _ , is not here to melt like a spring snow over a man.

“It’s Johnson, sir,” she replies dutifully.

Dameron’s eyebrows lift lightly. “A southerner, eh?” Rey’s stomach drops, but he continues quickly. “Glad to have you on our side,” he says easily. “Where you from?”

“Virginia, sir.”

Dameron nods pleasantly. “I hear western Virginia might become its own state, on account of slave’s rights. Is that so?”

“That’s so,” Rey agrees, allowing her lips to turn up slightly at the edges. Thankful for his kindness.

“Now you’ve met,” Ren says gruffly, standing up from his crate with a lurch. “Tell me what the hell you want besides  _ Johnson _ ’s company.”

Dameron’s smile flickers a little. He pulls it together enough to nod politely at Rey before turning his full attention back over to Ren.

“The officers have been talking,” he says, his voice lowering.

Ren shrugs sourly. “They always talk.  _ Only  _ talk.”

Rey slowly gets back down onto her knees, knowing this conversation isn’t for her but wanting to hear it anyway. She keeps an ear peeled while she fiddles with the southern wall, ostensibly straightening it.

“They’re saying Burnside wants to take Fredericksburg,” Dameron says quietly.

Ren laughs. It’s a great, bitter bark, like a shot.

“That’s what they’re saying,” Dameron continues, somewhat defensive. “ _ All  _ of them, Ren. The colonels heard it from the brigadier general, who said the major generals told him.”

Ren’s voice is dismissive. “Everyone knows Burnside wants that damn town, but he won’t have the balls to go back for it. Not after December.”

“He might, Ren.” Dameron sounds uneasy. Rey scoots herself closer as his voice gets even lower. “Lincoln’s not happy with him. The  _ Union _ isn’t happy with him. He might see this as his last chance to impress them.”

“It’s impossible.”

“Maybe.”

“He  _ had  _ his chance.”

“I know.”

Silence, for a long moment. Then Ren’s voice comes flatly: “We won’t go.”

“If he orders it-”

“We’re not going back,” hisses Ren, his voice furious but surprisingly quiet. “Over half of my company died, and the new boys are green.”

“They still might send us.”

“Then we’ll die,” Ren snarls with real violence. Rey dares to glance up and the two men are standing close, their heads lowered. Ren’s fists are clenching with anger, and Dameron’s handsome smile is gone, replaced by something haunted and hollow.

“I know,” he says dully.

The captains are quiet for a long moment while Rey looks on. Then Dameron sighs and scrubs a hand over his face.

“How’s the eye?” he asks wearily.

“Fine,” Ren says shortly. “How’s the arm?”

“Fine.”

Ren takes another swig from his scotch, then tilts the neck towards Dameron. Rey’s eyebrows shoot up with surprise, but the other captain just takes the bottle and drinks, handing it back to Ren when he’s done.

“It might be hot air,” Dameron says carefully, wiping his lips. “Just keep an ear out.”

Ren nods, his jaw tight. Dameron swings back to face Rey and her hut, and Rey remembers to look back down at her hands just in time.

“Nice meeting you, Johnson!” Dameron calls, an effortless smile back up on his face. Rey throws him a quick salute, then busies herself with her work, internally reviewing the conversation. Her fellow soldiers are always speculating about new maneuvers, but both armies generally lay down their arms in the winter. She doesn’t know nearly enough about Fredericksburg to understand what the captains are talking about, but she  _ does  _ know full well that the soldiers curse general Burnside awfully, and awfully often. 

Still lost in her thoughts, Rey nearly misses the sound of Ren stumping towards her. His footsteps halt a short distance away, prompting her to look up. When she glances at him, he’s frowning at the thick wooden walls with an unfocused gaze.

“Yes, sir?”

Both his eyes snap back towards her. “I need this finished tonight,” he says flatly.

Rey tries to make sense of that, even as she opens her mouth to ask “Why, sir?”

“I’m sleeping in it, you dumb cunt.” 

Ren carefully watches her as that statement sinks in. His lips twist into a nasty smile, and there’s a perverse kind of joy in his dark eye, watching Rey’s mouth open and close as her cheeks start to redden. Rey, for her part, has balled up her fists without even knowing it.

“But I said...this hut is  _ mine _ , sir,” she says slowly, her voice wavering slightly.

“And I’m ordering you to give it to me,” Ren replies, still with that humorless smirk. “You can build yourself one some other time. One that’s your size.”

Rey’s eyes widen, suddenly understanding why he’d asked her to increase the size of the hut. She feels  _ stupid  _ for not seeing it sooner, for thinking that she could have won. Anger and hurt twist in her gut, and she’s up on her feet before she can think about it.

In some world, Rey lets fly right there. In some world, perhaps the world of  _ old  _ Rey, she fights back against the captain. 

In this world,  _ this _ Rey sees just in time that Ren’s hands are clenched into fists at his sides, and he’s shifted his stance. His eyes gleam with dark intent, the same way they had the morning that he fought his sergeants. That’s when Rey realizes he  _ wants  _ this fight; something vicious in him is seeking release. 

They just stare at each other for a long moment, Rey breathing more deeply than normal. She wrangles the horse that is anger until it stands back in its stall. It takes all of her will, but Rey finally says: “Forgive me, the stockade is yours.”

The disappointment that flushes Ren’s face isn’t fleeting this time. “So  _ polite _ , scavenger,” he bites out between gritted teeth.

“You’re my captain,” Rey says humbly, perversely sinking into this meek persona as a shield against her own frustrations.

Ren takes a quick step forward, closing the distance between them. Rey sways in place, but successfully fights the urge to step back. Ren glares down at her, looming above her. He’s close enough for her to slap. Close enough to grab by the throat.

“I am,” he says harshly. “ _ I  _ am your captain.” His mismatched eyes seem to glow in his drawn, ravaged face. If not for his uniform, he could be a convict: matted long hair past his shoulders, beard growing wild and wiry over the ripped flesh of his cheeks. Rey breathes through her mouth to avoid his dank stench of both sweat and scotch.

“Yes, you are,” she says quietly. 

Ren looks down at her for another long moment. Then silently walks away with one last, lingering glare.

\---

Rey finishes the stockade before nightfall, but she makes a point of not singing as she works. She’s not in a singing mood.

Ren, for his part, disappears into his tent. Rey only disturbs him at the very end, when it’s finally time to loft his large A-frame tent over the stockade walls. He’s moody and silent when she temporarily evicts him, slouching at the table and stirring his uneaten stew. He mutely watches Rey struggle with the massive tent on her own; she falls on her ass in the snow more times than she’d like to admit, but she refuses to ask him for help, and he apparently refuses to offer. The sun is just a dim glow on the snow by the time Rey has the tent secured in place, and at that point she’s cold and tired and ready to wash her hands of the whole failed affair.

“It’s done, sir,” she says dully to the captain.

He nods, letting his spoon drop into the congealed soup. “Light the fire,” he says without looking at her.

“Yes, sir.”

It’s cozy inside the stockade, just as Rey knew it would be. She’s covered the floor with fresh hay- stolen from Mitaka- as well as pine boughs she cut down from the woods. It smells like her farm on the cusp of the woods, and Rey takes a moment to bury her face into the floor while the fireplace kindles. She inhales deeply, relishing this one small moment of the hut being  _ hers:  _ wood and pine, hay and embers. Sweet, homey things that make her heartbeat slow its anxious pace. 

She’ll have to make her new hut smell just like this one.

There’s a rustle outside, and then the captain is shifting aside the door that she’d made from an old hardtack box. Rey straightens with a jolt, crowding close to the fire as Ren crawls into the space. Just like that, the homey feel to the hut is gone- dampened by the strong smell of the captain and the way that he looms within the confines of the stockade. He stays on his hands and knees, looking around.

“Will it collapse in the night?” he asks dryly.

“It shouldn’t, sir.”

He grunts and crawls further in, pulling his small trunk and his rifle in after him. His movements are lit by the orange-red fire and the slight pale glow of the moon on the tent-roof. Rey leans forward to blow on the embers, making haste to be done with her task and leave.

“The fire should last through the night,” she says stiffly, starting to crawl towards the door.

“Bring the blankets in,” he says by way of reply.

Rey pauses briefly, but makes it to the door. She gropes just outside in the dark and feels the roll of the captain’s tarred blanket as well as his normal, softer one. Rey pulls them both in and passes them over to the captain; he’s moved to take her spot by the fire.

“Good night, sir,” she says sullenly, averting her eyes.

“Wait.”

Her eyes flick back up.

Ren is sitting on the floor of the hut that she built, fiddling with the buttons of his coat. He avoids her gaze.

“Sir?” she asks slowly. Her heartbeat is quickening, like it knows something Rey doesn’t. 

The captain says nothing. His back is straight as a poker.

Rey licks her lips nervously. “What do you need?” she asks, voice gone small and unsure.

The captain’s jaw clenches, but he still doesn’t look at her.  The silence stretches uncomfortably long...and then he clears his throat.

“I am not one to sleep much,” he says finally, voice so guarded it’s practically without emotion. “Not well, or at all.”

Rey stays on her hands and knees, rooted by confusion. What is she meant to do with that statement? Luckily, the captain goes on before she can ask for clarification.

“Sleep came easily the other day. When you sang.” Ren’s fingers tighten on the cuff of his jacket where he’s been straightening it. “I would have you do it again.”

Rey’s anxiety spikes. Every inch of her skin feels like it’s crawling from sheer proximity to this strange man. She has no desire to spend any time in the pit of the viper himself, especially not with her anger still cooling. The stockade is already warm with heat from the fire and from their two bodies, but Rey would prefer a year of winter in her dog tent over sharing a tent with Ren.

“That’s an order,” the captain says hoarsely, as though he can hear her thoughts.

Rey’s guts constrict, but she makes herself nod deferentially.

“How long should I sing?” she hears herself say.

“Until I’m asleep.”

“And then can I go?” These words, too, come unbidden.

Ren’s jaw clenches again, but he finally turns his eyes towards her. “If you wish,” he says coolly. “Though you’re no good to me if you’ve frozen to death in the night.” Her own words parroted back at her make Rey flush slightly.

“Fine, then,” Rey says.

“Fine,” says the captain.

They stay still for a moment. Then the captain abruptly lays down on the floor, pulling his blanket up towards his chin. Rey forces herself to survey the rest of the hut,  _ her  _ hut. There’s room on the opposite end for her to lay down without risking close contact with Ren.

Rey crawls to her corner and lays down uncertainly, pushing her back up against the chinked wood. It feels cool through her clothes, and Rey wills her nerves to settle and still. She closes her eyes, breathing lightly, and tries to pretend she’s nestled to sleep in the hay in Plutt’s barn. 

“Any requests?” she asks faintly, not unconvinced this is all a bad dream and she’s still back at home in Virginia.

“No,” Ren says simply.

Rey pulls a pine bough to her nose and inhales. With effort, the captain’s presence and the sound of his breathing seems to fade. Rey starts singing low:

_ Now you must answer my questions nine, _

_ Sing ninety-nine and ninety, _

_ Or you aren’t God’s, you’re one of mine, _

_ And who is the weaver’s bonny. _

It’s an old song, “The Devil’s Nine Questions.” Old enough that the lyrics change, old enough that the tune can dip low or sound high as the singer pleases. The tune sounds best when sung in a duet: one to play the Devil asking riddles, and one to solve them as the weaver’s bonny. Kylo Ren would make a fine Devil, but Rey’s not about to make that comparison aloud nor invite him to join the song. 

_ What is higher than a tree? _

_ Sing ninety-nine and ninety, _

_ And what is deeper than the sea? _

_ And who is the weaver’s bonny. _

Rey slowly relaxes, her eyes still closed. Sung alone, the words of the song are cyclical and soothing, safe and familiar. It’s warm in the hut, and Ren doesn’t stir from his place near the fire. It’s easy to pretend that it’s just Rey alone in the barn back at Plutt’s, singing herself and the swallows to sleep. She’s too intent on the music to wonder whether Ren is following along or already asleep.

_ Heaven is higher than a tree, _

_ Sing ninety-nine and ninety, _

_ And hell is deeper than the sea, _

_ And I’m the weaver’s bonny. _

Rey softly sings to the end of the tune, when the Devil admits his defeat. She tapers off with a sleepy sense of satisfaction; she’d always imagined herself as the one answering riddles, defiant in the face of the Devil. Now she cocks an ear towards her own personal demon and listens for his signature snore.

It isn’t there.

Internally sighing, Rey moves on to a song she picked up from the Texan artillerymen, “I Ride an Old Paint.” That blurs into a new song, and another, and another. Rey finally catches herself mumbling a verse; she stops just long enough to hear the captain’s deep breathing, then follows him down into slumber.

__

\---

That night, Rey dreams of an island.

She’s never been out in deep waters before, but in this dream she stands on a barren gray rock surrounded by tumultuous waves. Rey hears the waves crash but she’s looking upwards; a single pine tree grows impossibly tall on the island, so tall that its peak disappears into the ominous sky. There’s white light up over the tree and the clouds, something glowing and gold. Rey only knows that she wants it, whatever it is. Then she looks down, and the ocean around her is black and thrashing. Bursts of red flame light the water internally, the same way lightning will glow in the bellies of clouds. The ocean groans and creaks like oak trees in a storm. 

“What is higher than a tree?”

Rey isn’t startled, in her dream, but she turns her head slowly. Kylo Ren is standing beside her, a few paces off. She couldn’t rightly say if he’d sung or said the words, but Rey knows that they’re his. He’s looking right up at the light in the sky with a wistful expression.

“What is deeper than the sea?”

Rey feels cold at the same time she notices black sea water climbing Ren’s legs: the ocean is rising. The captain still looks up, even as the stormclouds start to constrict around the high bright light. The waves are already up to their waists; Rey can’t tell if the ocean is rising or if their island is just falling down, down, down.

Rey wants Ren to turn. She tries to say something, but her mouth doesn’t move. 

“You aren’t God’s, you’re one of mine.”

The light is cut off overhead. Everything turns into black, stormy waters. Red thunder claps, and when Rey looks down, she sees awful shapes writhing under the waves. Ren finally turns, but Rey can’t see his face. She opens her mouth to call out and it fills with an ocean of blood as they  _ drop _ .

Rey won’t remember this, when she wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone- thank you for reading! There's a lot of setup in this somewhat longer installment...Rey's feeling herself a little, Poe's got some serious worries, and Kylo is being his usual dickish self...though I was kind and had him invite Rey into the stockade this chapter instead of the next one (can you tell I'm used to slower burns?). I absolutely love writing gross, grimy Kylo, but I promise he'll clean up a little before any "close contact" occurs!
> 
> In other news- I was really awed by the positive response to last chapter! I've been very inspired by this plot so I think I'll be keeping to the biweekly posting schedule. If you find yourself wanting to read something else of mine in the meantime, my nearest and dearest fic is the modern AU [It Being Late, You'd Like Some Company](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22140058/chapters/52847653). Also, sidenote: I always read and enjoy comments as soon as I get them, but tend to reply to comments only when the new chapter is posted. Thank you for everyone who's read, shared, and commented, it really means the world <3
> 
> NOTES  
> -The bits about building the stockade (materials, technique, etc.) are all pulled from the civil war memoir "Hardtack and Coffee." You can see some pics and read some info about it [here](https://ironbrigader.com/2012/11/25/army-potomac-winter-quarters/#:~:text=After%20the%20Battle%20of%20Fredericksburg,\)%20at%20Belle%20Plain%2C%20Virginia.).
> 
> -Burnside was probably the shortest-lived general of the Army of the Potomac, though he fought throughout the war. He royally botched the December assault on Fredericksburg- I'll get more into that later!- and the morale of the army hit a real dip under his leadership.
> 
> -West Virginia was formed during the Civil War, because northwestern Virginians didn't want to secede from the Union. They started making it legal in 1861 and finally in mid-1863 Lincoln approved WV as the newest state in the Union.
> 
> -I've learned sooo many new folk songs while writing this fic and I love them all! (feel free to send me any, history/folk buffs) "The Devil's Nine Questions" is very old and has plenty of variations, but here's [one version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3gQfKfM7-hk) I like. "I Ride An Old Paint" has also been widely covered, but I like [this version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ou6wWBlq8AQ&list=OLAK5uy_mVn2hXQamXjLIuOllX8hBm9lMDdIsZ8Rc&index=3&t=0s). In general it's weird with folk songs because a lot of them are now considered children's songs, but in the 1860s these would have been more acceptable for adults to sing to each other.


	5. The Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things that are out of both Rey and Ren's control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who want to picture the hut and how close Rey + Kylo are to each other when sleeping inside it, I made [a shitty drawing](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EgO4RVkXgAsDH3e?format=jpg&name=large). 
> 
> CW: Brief mention of morphine and ether. Also talkin' 'bout periods this chapter! (The bloody ones, not the punctuation. Though if anyone wants to yell at me for using more commas than Virginia Woolf have at it)

When Reveille wakes Rey the next morning, she doesn’t know where she is.

She freezes in place like a rabbit under an eagle’s shadow, trying to figure out why she’s curled up in hay (Plutt’s?), but in uniform (army?), but warm (not her tent?), but has company (Ren).

The huge man is sprawled out by the fire a short distance away, making the stockade feel small and filling the space with his particular, unpleasant stench of sweat and whiskey. As the morning bugle continues, he stirs and turns in his spot, finally opening both eyes; Rey has a split second to wish she’d mimed sleep, and then their eyes meet.

The captain sits up abruptly, pushing up from the floor with a powerful rush that makes Rey instinctively ball up even tighter in place. His hand whips to the handle of the knife on his belt and Rey babbles, high-pitched, in a rush of memory: “You asked me to stay!” 

Ren still unsheathes his knife a few inches before her words visibly sink in, staying his hand. His darkened expression lightens gradually into confusion, and then recognition. Rey just watches him, wide-eyed, from her ball on the floor, not daring to move. The captain finally rolls his jaw and turns away towards the fire, leaving her with a fleeting impression of...embarrassment?

“Go make my coffee,” he rumbles, still looking away. 

As if waiting for permission, Rey’s muscles unfreeze at once. She scrambles onto her hands and knees, quickly making it to and through the makeshift door of the hut to the relative safety outside. She breathes a quick sigh of relief once she’s out in the fresh air, and out of knife’s reach. Then she refocuses on more practical matters: the captain’s fire pit is still at his old campsite, along with his table and awning. Now that he’s claimed _this_ site for his own, she’ll have to clear a new space in front of the stockade and move all of his furniture over...but for now, the old campsite will do. 

Rey kindles the fire there and sets down a fresh pot of coffee to brew, setting out to fetch Ren’s breakfast right after. The paths of their camp are familiar now; Rey nods to the other soldiers as she walks by, their own stockades bustling with the rumble of men readying for the day. A few infantrymen even call greetings to Rey: Carter, Blackman, Miller, some of the recruits. She knows they must think she’s a crooked stick, what with her silence and solitary campsite, but she’s grateful all the same that they don’t mind her living amongst them. Perhaps they (mistakenly) think she’s friendly with the captain and can put in a good word on their behalf. In truth, the only real benefit Rey has gained as Ren’s aide is her permission to skip the roll call; it ensures that she’s always first in line for breakfast.

“Guess what we got today, boyo?” the cook cackles, taking Rey’s empty plates from her hands. He turns and ducks back towards a large open crate.

“Sausage?” Rey ventures. She knows this routine, though. Her hopes are not high.

“We got _crackers_ ,” the cook says, slapping a hard handful down on one plate, then the other. “...and _salt pork_.”

Rey forces a weak smile. “Just like yesterday, chef,” she says gamely.

“That’s right,” the cook crows. He hands the plates back to Rey with a broad wink. “When we get some fresh horse meat I’ll tell ya straight off.”

Rey’s stomach rumbles; she’s eaten much worse than a horse in her time. Fish heads off of the street in D.C., for example, or a raw squirrel in the woods of northern Virginia. “You do that,” she says earnestly.

Maybe it’s just the memory of those half-rotted fish heads, but by the time Rey makes it back to Ren’s camp- she refuses to think of it as _their_ camp- her stomach is pinching uncomfortably. She sets the plates down in the snow and sets about hauling Ren’s makeshift chairs and work table over, ignoring her pain like she usually does. The aches only grow as she keeps working, though; her muscles spasm and clench with every small stretch.

Ren comes out from the woods while Rey is doubled over with cramps, one hand steadying herself on the tabletop.

“Don’t vomit on my table,” Ren snaps, his voice sour. He’s re-buttoning his fly and only glances at Rey to shoot her a surly look full of warning; that glance is all she needs to know that he won’t be discussing last night’s sleeping arrangements.

“I won’t, sir,” Rey grits out, trying to ignore the way her skin’s crawling with pain. She straightens up stiffly and steps back, clearing the way for the captain to sit. She breathes in through her nose and bends down slowly again, grabbing his plate up from the snow. She sets it down on the table in front of him like a particularly grimy and unpleasant waiter, serving an equally unpleasant guest.

“I have to relieve myself, sir,” she chokes out by way of explanation, already stepping away towards the woods.

“ _I_ don’t need to know that,” Ren growls, his eyebrows rising. He waves a hand brusquely at her. “Go fuck off, then.”

Rey manages a nod and trots off, one hand clutching her stomach. As she makes her way more deeply into the trees, she wonders if she truly might have dysentery; she half-hopes she does. Rey passes Ren’s latrine and finally comes to a quiet enough spot where she might not be disturbed for a while. She undoes the buttons of her trousers and pulls them down to her ankles, moaning slightly in pain when she crouches to squat.

Guided by suspicion, Rey touches her cunt.

It feels wet, which isn’t unusual, but what _is_ unusual is the red-brown coating of blood on her fingertips when she pulls them back. She curses, staring down at the literal mess on her hands.

_Betrayed_. She’s been betrayed by her own goddamned body.

Rey hasn’t had her monthly in many months, so long ago that she can’t quite recall. It was easy to deal with it back at Plutt’s farm; she wore long, covering skirts, and just scrubbed her slip in the wash when her bleeding inevitably stained it. Her season of starvation after Plutt’s farm and on the streets of D.C. had then dried up the bleeding, so she’d never had cause for alarm or containment. But now, of course, just when she’s finally thinking of herself as a man more than half of the time, nature has seen fit to remind her that it’s all a farce. Regular army rations have restarted her flow; now all it will take is one stain on her pants to blow her disguise.

Rey clenches her hand into a fist, shutting her eyes tight. It just isn’t _fair._ As always, the universe is trying to remind her of her female fragility. But she _isn’t_ weak. She _isn’t_ a woman. She is Rey Johnson, _male_ , and he’s come too far now to be caught by some blood.

Rey grits her teeth, trying to think up an easy solution. If she could just stuff her cunt like a chicken, seal the thing up like a tunnel, she would. But seeing as that’s not an option…

...or is it?

Rey thoughtfully opens her eyes once again, blindly scanning her memories. Mitaka’s depot has many supplies, some of which are diverted to the medical staff. The infirmary goes through hundreds of crates of clean cotton gauze for the wounded; they cut it in strips to wrap around wounds...to staunch bleeding.

Rey suddenly sees her next course of action as clearly as the blood on her fingers. She smiles thinly, her frustration already receding, and wipes her hand off on a patch of new snow. It’s time, as the captain might put it, to go _scavenging._

\---

Hours later, Rey has just finished re-hanging Ren’s awning over the new fire pit in front of their- her- _his_ stockade. Her stomach still aches, but the cramps she can handle. The bigger victory is the wad of stolen cotton gauze she’d shoved up into her cunt to absorb any bleeding. It had been a fairly simple procedure, in truth, but Rey hadn’t liked the way her fingers shook slightly when she pushed the wad up. Her face had flushed slightly and her cunt had contracted with some fluttering feeling that wasn’t the cramps. Her motions had slowed, and she’d just frozen there, hovering. Her eyes had half-shut and she’d carefully, tentatively, shifted her fingers inside of herself...and then hastily drew them back out again, blushing. 

A portion of Rey’s mind still dwells on the blood- worrying that it will run, or stain, or create a strong smell- but her anxiety has become much more manageable now. Which is good, because Ren is coming back from today’s drill with Hux in tow, and the two men are fighting.

“I don’t care what you heard,” Ren is saying, his voice harsh and hoarse. “Until I hold the order right here in my hand, it’s only hot air.”

“But sir…” Hux walks speedily to catch up with Ren’s stride. His face looks exceptionally pale beneath his bright red muttonchops. “I heard it from a captain, who heard it from a colonel, who heard it from a brigadier general-”

“Who heard it from God himself, I suppose?” Ren snarls, stopping to glare at the lieutenant. He sizes the other man up, his own scarred face crinkling up with disdain. “I’m surprised you’re not jumping for joy at the prospect,” he spits out. “It would give you a chance to finally earn those damned stripes.”

Hux blanches; his thin fingers nervously reach up to touch the epaulets of his officer’s jacket. He has no insignia there, just empty black rectangles on both of his shoulders. Ren, on the other hand, has the two gold bars that mark him as captain. 

“I pray it does not come to that,” Hux replies stiffly.

“Sure you do,” Ren sneers, his words dripping hostility.

Rey, who has been valiantly pretending to re-tie a knot, wonders not for the first time why Kylo Ren seems to hate his lieutenant. One simple answer could be that he hates everyone; Rey’s own experience has certainly made this the most likely option. And yet...Rey remembers the casual way that the sergeants had patted Ren’s back after their wrestling match. The Mainers are technically Hux’s underlings, and yet they seem to be higher in Ren’s favor than the lieutenant himself. Hux is certainly an unpleasant stickler from what Rey has seen, but nothing that deserves exceptional punishment. Particularly when the captain is more unpleasant than him by an order of magnitude.

“Get out of my sight,” Ren snaps after a moment, decisively turning his back on Hux. He angrily straightens the cuffs of his jacket. “If any _real_ orders come, I’ll alert you,” he says. “In the meantime, you’d better start praying.”

Hux’s face goes hard and hateful for a split second behind Ren’s back. Then he throws a salute the captain doesn’t see and heads back off into camp the same way that he came. Rey hastily drops her eyes back down to the knot she’s been fiddling with.

“Any messages come?” Ren grumbles as he stalks towards the hut. If he’s at all impressed or grateful that Rey has neatly replicated his original campsite in this new location, he doesn’t show it.

“One, sir, from Mitaka.” Rey points at the table, where a white note lies pinned under a rock. “He wants to know if any men need new uniforms.”

Ren sits down with a thump on a hardtack crate, scowling. “No one _needs_ a new uniform,” he growls, his gloved fingers drumming the tabletop. “If they spent all that money on bullets, the war might be over by now.”

Rey glances at him. She makes a non-committal noise in her throat, but Ren doesn’t seem like he’s expecting an answer. Whatever he and Hux were fighting about, it’s apparently still on his mind; he frowns into space, eyes glazed over and his fingers still absently drumming.

“Something the matter, sir?” Rey asks cautiously.

His eyes, both the dark and the gray, snap back towards her. “Yes,” he says flatly. “You’re butchering that knot.”

Rey looks back down at her hands. The knot she’s been fiddling with secures the roof of their hut, Ren’s tent, to a stake in the ground, keeping the tent open and upright. “It’s a simple knot,” she says in light protest.

“Exactly.” The captain gets up from his seat and strides over towards her, taking a knee by her side.

“Give me that,” he mutters, supplanting her hands; Rey snatches hers back before they can brush. “Go get me some empty bottles and cans from the cook,” Ren continues, not looking at her. Even wearing thick gloves, he deftly unpicks her knot and starts relooping the rope in mere seconds. Rey just watches him work for a moment, trying to follow the unfamiliar pattern he weaves.

“ _Now_ ,” Ren says impatiently, halting his work to glare straight at Rey. This close, his face is especially frightful, and Rey quickly jumps up and sets off towards the kitchen. Upon her return, she finds that Ren has redone all of her knots around every tent stake.

“It’s a miracle the damn thing didn’t collapse,” he says in disgust. Rey doesn’t answer, just stands waiting in place with three bottles and two cans clutched close to her chest. The sun is arcing down in the sky and the captain squints up at it, judging, before grabbing his rifle where it leans against the hut.

“Come,” he says brusquely, not looking at her. Rey stupidly looks over her shoulder to see if he’s talking to somebody else, then looks back to see him stalking off towards the snowy orchard. He’s already covered a fair distance, so she hastily starts trotting after him, still gripping the mess in her arms.

They walk in near silence; just the crunch of their boots cutting through the thin snow. There’s no fully escaping the noises of camp, but out here among the bare apple trees there’s the luxury of some wide open space. Clouds scuttle slowly across the clear sky, and their breaths make twin columns of barely-iced air. Rey feels like she’s drifting in the wake left behind by a boat, except Ren trails a fog of distracted, dark thoughts as he trudges in front of her. Resigned to the silence, Rey gives all her attention to her own footing and to not dropping the cans or the bottles. She nearly runs into the captain when he comes to a halt.

Ren starts fiddling with a pouch on his belt. He spares a nod towards an old, swaybacked fence about 50 yards out.

“Set those things upright there,” he says gruffly to her.

Rey swiftly follows his orders, jogging back to his side once she’s balanced the bottles and cans on the worn, cracking wood. By that time, Ren has his rifle up on his shoulder, and he’s squinting with his good eye out towards the targets. Rey hesitates a short distance beside him, wondering if she should give him his privacy, but not keen to distract him with questions while he’s holding a weapon and already in a bad mood. She watches his gloved finger slide over the trigger, but it still makes her straighten in shock when he actually fires; the rifle snaps up in his hands with an echoing _pop_ and smoke curls from the muzzle. Birds chatter and fly up in a rush from their branches. Ren impatiently loosens one hand from the gun and waves it through the air to dispel the gray smoke.

“Shit,” he says sourly, stilling.

Rey tears her eyes off of him and looks out towards the targets instead. All of the bottles and cans are still standing upright on the fence. Ren curses again and sets the butt of his rifle down hard on the ground, angrily fishing through his belt pouch for a fresh cartridge. 

Rey eyes him warily. Hoping to clear the area before his temper gets worse, she cautiously asks: “Do you want me to leave, sir?”

“No,” he says stiffly. He rips open the cartridge with palpable frustration.

Rey nervously picks at the side of her pant leg. “Is there a way I can help?”

The captain jams his ramrod down the barrel with more force than needed. “Got a left eye to spare?” he asks acidly, his lips drawing back from his teeth in a snarl.

“Sorry, sir,” Rey says quickly, looking down at her boots. She supposes that shooting is only one of many things the captain has had to re-learn since his eye was sliced open.

Ren cocks back the hammer of his rifle and resettles the gun on his shoulder. “Don’t be,” he says flatly. “You didn’t do it.” He stands stock still for a moment, considering the targets, then adjusts his aim to point more towards the left. This time when he fires, they can both hear the bullet ricochet off a can; Rey looks over and sees that one tin can is wobbling right on the edge of the fence. Ren slowly pulls the rifle away from his shoulder, a hint of satisfaction stealing over his face. 

Later, Rey won’t know what possessed her to ask him. 

“Did you-” she starts asking abruptly, surprising herself. She commits to her question in a rush of nerves. “Did you have an aide before me, sir?”

Ren doesn’t answer at first, and Rey thinks that is that. He’s methodically, silently, reloading his gun. As Rey watches, he drops a new bullet down into the barrel and pulls loose the ramrod again.

“Yes,” he says simply, his eyes on his work.

Rey nods to herself, both surprised and not. He _is_ a captain, after all, but she just can’t imagine anyone else handling the trials of being Ren’s aide. Did he make _them_ sleep in his tent? Did he keep _them_ waiting in the snow while he shot at old bottles? 

“What happened to him?” Rey asks. She wraps her arms across her chest tightly, starting to feel the January chill the longer they stand in one place. “Did you lose him?”

“Lose him?”

“Did he die in-” Rey swerves at the last moment, noting Ren’s tightening jaw “-back in December,” she clumsily finishes. _In_ _Fredericksburg_ goes unsaid.

Ball and powder sufficiently packed, Ren re-fastens his ramrod. “No,” he says gruffly. His jaw has relaxed. “He was transferred.”

Rey mulls that over; she knows Company K was decimated at Fredericksburg, and had assumed that Ren’s aide was somehow one of the casualties. Deciding to pursue this path of inquiry while it remains open, she bravely asks: “Why did he transfer?”

Ren tightens the cone on his rifle, his black hair spilling into his face. “I’m told,” he says slowly, “that I broke his collarbone.” Ren says the words tonelessly, almost carelessly. He hefts the musket up onto his shoulder and Rey’s eyebrows also shoot up. 

“You don’t _know_ if you broke it?”

“No,” Ren confirms faintly, aiming his rifle. The long muzzle tilts to the left, and then just a _hair_ further. “That’s the week they stopped giving me morphine.”

So saying, he fires the rifle with a puff of red flame and of sulphurous smoke. In the distance, a resonant _slam_ indicates that the can has gone flying. 

Rey decides, wisely, to stop asking questions.

\---

Once the sunlight starts dying, Ren packs up his gun and Rey dutifully follows, her shadow subsumed by the long, inky stretch of his own form over the snow. They don’t bother bringing the targets back with them; the bottles are now glinting shards in the snow, and the tin cans are riddled with bullets. Rey makes her excuses to dodge out of their campsite soon after. She can feel the faint, nerve-wracking slide of fresh blood smearing between her thighs, and she knows she needs to replace her cotton as quickly as possible. Rey heads to infirmary at a brisk clip, doing her best not to let any panic pass over her face. 

The infirmary is pretty quiet at this time of day, and at this time of year. There haven't been any battles since Fredericksburg, so at this point the surgeons are dealing with the trots, sprained ankles, and the occasional misfire wound. Some men inevitably leave for sick call every morning, but the joke is that whatever their ailment, they’ll be given quinine. The malarial preventative is so popular with the medical staff that soldiers have improvised words to go along with the bugle:

_Dr. Jones says, Dr. Jones says:_

_Come and get your quin, quin, quin, quinine._

_Come and get your quinine,_

_Q-u-i-n-i-n-e!_

It’s one of the many songs trickling around camp and slowly being absorbed into Rey’s repertoire...not that she thinks Ren would be particularly soothed by the quinine song.

Rey now makes her way closer to the medical tents, marking the crates of clean cotton that she’d picked through this morning. She walks purposefully towards them, trying to project an air of confidence. In her experience here, and on the streets of DC, folks will let you get close when they shouldn’t as long as you act like you’re supposed to be there. Rey has just started withdrawing a new skein of gauze when a nasal voice pipes up behind her. 

“You needin’ some gauze, then?” it asks.

Rey turns slowly around. The surgeon behind her is young, even younger than her. He’s got a long, pockmarked face and an armful of old rags that maybe he’d been looking to change out for new ones.

“That’s right,” Rey says evenly, still holding her cotton. Using a tried and true excuse, she adds “I need them for captain Kylo Ren.”

The young surgeon flinches. “You can give him that cotton,” he says nervously, shifting. “Give him as much as he wants. Just so long as you bring it to him and he don’t come here for it.”

Rey is happy to oblige him; she takes a few thick skeins of cotton out from the crate. The surgeon watches her anxiously, resettling his armful of rags.

“You captain Ren’s aide?” he asks warily.

“I am,” Rey says evenly, re-closing the crate.

“You know what he done to his last aide, though? He broke his-”

“-collarbone, yes.” Rey finds herself annoyed by the man’s warning tone, even though she herself had been alarmed. “He told me.”

The young surgeon falters and searches Rey’s face. “Well...you know he almost killed some surgeons last month?”

She snorts. “That sounds like a lie.”

The man makes an indignant sound. “I swear on my life,” he says heatedly. “I was there, I seen the whole thing.”

Rey balls the cotton gauze up in her hands. She’s ready to leave, but she’s also a little intrigued in spite of herself. “Who did he kill, then?” she asks airily.

“He didn’t _kill_ them, he _tried_ to kill them.” The young surgeon drops his rags, gesticulating now that he’s got a good story to tell. “It was right here after Fredericksburg,” he says confidently, waving one hand at the now-empty tent. “We had tables for miles covered up with the dead and the dyin’.”

“Back in December?”

“That’s right,” the man nods. “And those big french bastards from Company K, you know ‘em?”

Rey leans back against a crate, her attention drawn in. “The sergeants?”

“That’s right, them sergeants. _Big_ fuckin’ men. They come haul in the captain lookin’ like death hisself. He got blood from his head to his boots,” says the surgeon, swiping his own hand down over his face. “He’d been pinned down all night in the Slaughter Pen, right? Got a hole in his side and his whole face right _fucked_.”

“The Slaughter Pen?” Rey frowns.

The surgeon grinds to a halt with a haunted expression. “You don’t know it?”

Rey just shakes her head.

“Well,” he says heavily, “I ain’t telling that story.” With effort, the surgeon shakes off his sudden dour mood. “Anyway,” he continues, picking up steam again. “The sergeants brung him in half-dead and set him down on the block. The surgeon looks at him, says ‘we gotta take the whole eye.’”

Rey winces minutely, thinking of Ren’s slivered pupil.

“We _thought_ the captain was passed out, but, no sir,” the surgeon is saying. “He heard _that_ all right. Said ‘you ain’t takin’ my eye.’ And the surgeon says, ‘No, son, we’re _takin’_ that eye,’ and the captain-” he grimaces, and clenches his hands “-ooooh, he didn’t like that.”

Rey leans forward in spite of herself, her eyes glowing. “And then what?” she asks.

The young surgeon smirks, satisfied that his story has captured her fully. “Well,” he says dryly. “The captain come charging straight off the damn table. He grab the surgeon-” he clutches his own neck “-and starts _wringin’_ his neck some god damned chicken.” He drags out those last words like three separate sentences. “More surgeons come runnin’ and he swats them like flies. I was busy,” he adds hastily, guilt passing over his face. “I had my own duties. Couldn’t help them, of course.”

Now it’s Rey’s turn to smirk. “Of course,” she says generously.

“Anyway,” says the surgeon, swiftly changing the subject. “I figure they hoped he would bleed out from the action. Instead, all five sergeants get him down on the ground. They sat on him, more like. Surgeons couldn’t get close so they poured a whole bottle of ether right onto his head. He was spittin’ and swearin’ and howlin’ a storm ‘til that stuff knocked him out.” He sucks his teeth thoughtfully, picking at his chin. “Guess we didn’t work too hard to stitch him back up,” he says vaguely. “Left him the eye, not much good it’ll do him. Hard not holdin’ a grudge when you got purple handprints all over your neck.” He looks slyly at Rey, now. “Figure _he_ might hold grudges too,” he says cagily. “That’s why we’d be obliged if you came for the cotton yourself and not him, if you don’t mind me sayin’.”

“Not at all,” Rey says vaguely, still digesting the story. She thinks back to the day that Ren trained with his sergeants, when his face had been swollen and bloody. She’d tried to suggest that he go to the infirmary, but his response had been swift and resounding.

_No_ , he’d said tightly. _I’m not going there._

Rey doesn’t think he’ll be coming for cotton anytime soon.

\---

It’s full dark by the time Rey gets back to the stockade. She _did_ pick up Ren’s dinner as originally promised, but stopped beforehand in the woods to swap out her old cotton wad for a new length of gauze. She’d packed it in tightly for the long night ahead, with no lingering this time; her mind was still caught up on the young surgeon’s gossip.

Ren is sitting at his table, looking into the fire.

“Here’s dinner, captain,” Rey says, setting down his tin plate. It’s salt pork and crackers again, same as breakfast. Same as most days, in fact.

Ren glances coolly over at the plate, then back towards the fire. He doesn’t offer thanks. Rey isn’t offended anymore; she just sneaks a look at him. The firelight casts his left side in strange shadows, rippling darkness and flame on the troughs of his face. For the first time since her first day, Rey tries to imagine the knifing that left these deep scars. And for the first time ever, Rey tries to imagine the shoddy stitch-work that could leave his face this torn and damaged weeks later. Her eyes drop down to his mouth in particular, where one of the knife cuts had carved through his top lip so deeply she sees the white glint of his teeth between half-healed flesh.

“Stop staring,” Ren snaps, his head whipping around so his good eye can glare. The firelight makes it blaze gold like a hawk’s and Rey steps back, alarmed.

“Sorry, sir,” she says, raising her hands peacefully. “Do you need anything else?”

He still glares at her, though his jaw slightly twists. “My order still stands,” he says finally, stiffly. He turns back towards the fire. 

Rey shifts uncomfortably, lowering her hands. He wants her to stay in the hut again, then, and sing him to sleep. Rey’s mind leaps to the small space and wonders how likely it is that her monthly will fill the close air with the smell of dank blood. For once, she’s glad that Ren’s own odor is so foul; it might cover her scent.

“Should I...go start the fire?” she asks.

Ren opens his mouth to reply, but doesn’t get that far. Instead, he cocks his head sharply, listening. In the silence, the two of them hear a purposeful stride crunching over the snow, coming towards them. The captain shuts his mouth into a thin line and stares out at the darkness. Rey looks that way, too, still standing beside him.

Presently, a young man’s shape emerges from the blackness. His uniform is neat, and the firelight shines off his gold jacket buttons. Rey steals a glance down at Ren, but his scarred face yields little emotion. She looks back at the aide- because now she can tell it’s an aide who’s approaching- and her eyes zero in on the letter he holds in his hand. A strange sense of dread starts to press on her chest.

_“The officers have been talking,”_ Dameron had said.

The captain stands creakily, like a reluctant tree growing.

“Evening, sir,” chirps the new aide. “Hello,” he adds briefly, nodding towards Rey. Then he straightens and snaps a salute for Ren’s benefit. “I’ve got a message for you, sir.”

_“I heard it from a captain, who heard it from a colonel…”_ Hux had said.

The boy hands out his letter to Ren, and the captain takes the envelope from him like a dead animal, between thumb and forefinger. “Please note,” the boy adds, “that all captains are to meet at the colonel’s tent before drill tomorrow.”

Ren just nods, his lips twisting.

“Have a good evening,” the aide says obliviously, snapping one more salute. He holds the position for a moment, but when Rey only stares and Ren glares down at the letter, he drops his hand. The boy turns sharply on his heel and heads back into the night just as purposefully as he had left it.

Rey hears the captain tear open the letter, and she looks back at him. He stands, scanning the lines of script briefly, eyes flicking from side to side; they finally freeze at one point and his whole face goes still. His fist clenches around the letter, crumpling it into a ball, and he turns away from the fire. His back is a broad, black pillar of anger for one pendulous moment, and then he lashes out, punching straight down at the table. Once, twice, thrice...Rey steps back instinctively as he keeps battering the wood with unhinged power. His dinner plate rattles right off of the edge and spills onto the dirt.

With a final great _slam_ of his fist, Ren straightens again, now audibly panting. He slowly re-opens his fist, revealing the crumpled remains of the letter. He lets it fall on the dirt, then angles his head slightly back towards Rey.

“Go tell Hux that we’re marching on Fredericksburg.” 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to B+B! This chapter was delayed because I originally wanted it to include what comes next, but that would have made the chapter wayyyy too busy. I'm hoping to get y'all the next chapter a little earlier to make up for it. As for this chapter, I hope you all enjoyed it! I loved writing the surgeon's story and the makeshift shooting range, and next chapter we'll finally talk about Fredericksburg, I promise! I also wanted to flag that at this point Rey equates being female with being weak, as you read during her moment of frustration about her period. Rey is not really a reliable POV on this point, and you're meant to disagree with her. She is a strong character, but she's also got a lot of Not Healthy repression going on and this chapter touched on it slightly. We'll get into it more later.
> 
> Thank you as always for the many warm comments and kudos I've received so far on this work, it really means a lot to me. Especially since there hasn't even been any smut yet! That makes me feel like you're all here for the premise and characters...though I also can't fucking wait to share the smut <3 <3
> 
> Historical Notes
> 
> -Women made their own makeshift tampons/pads from fibers, wool, etc. for a long time historically. The first commercial tampons hit western markets in the late 1800s, which imo had to do with ensuring that women could work long hours in factories.
> 
> -You can see the union officer insignia [here](https://civilwarwiki.net/wiki/Union_Insignia_of_the_Civil_War). Kylo has the captain's epaulets, and Hux has the 2nd lieutenant blank box because Kylo is petty and didn't make him 1st lieutenant even though no one else fills that role. 
> 
> -Here's [a video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VCAYXQ1Z6q4) showing the steps for loading a musket!
> 
> -Union doctors did prescribe a shit ton of quinine to soldiers; it came up in the Hardtack & Coffee memoir, and the little song is from [here](https://www.sciencehistory.org/distillations/the-popular-dose-with-doctors-quinine-and-the-american-civil-war#:~:text=Quinine%20did%20not%20cure%20the,their%20soldiers%20took%20quinine%20prophylactically). As for ether and morphine, both were used as pain killers during the Civil War, though a small dose of ether was used more commonly to knock someone out quickly for surgery.


	6. The Drill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 leading up to Fredericksburg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: mention of morphine use in the last section (the sergeants' fire)
> 
> Also: It would absolutely delight me to make the Knights of Ren (sergeants) never speak...like, I mentally imagine their voices like the adults in Charlie Brown- purely incomprehensible mumbling. That being said, I realized this chapter that I want you to get to know them as secondary characters, so I have them speaking actual sentences. I apologize in advance if their English is a little hard to follow, but I hope you get the gist! It might be helpful to go back to last chapter and re-read Rey and Ren's conversation during target practice.

The news of the coming offensive blows like a plague wind through camp, travelling swiftly between tents as the soldiers begin their chores and start whispering to each other.

“Fredericksburg…”

“Back to Fredericksburg…”

“Back to the pen...”

Rey walks her usual route to get breakfast and hears the men’s voices rising like mist around her. She glances over at the soldiers occasionally, noting that while the recruits are babbling in mixed fear and excitement, the veterans’ faces have gone stiff as new leather. One grizzled infantryman spits on the ground when he sees Rey, as though _she_ , by association with the captain, has personally condemned him to death. Or maybe he just remembers she’s southern; Rey doesn’t linger to find out.

“They’re sending us back to Fredericksburg…”

Rey catches some of the soldiers’ anxiety and walks quickly towards the captain’s tent with their breakfasts in hand. She’s hoping Ren will actually _be_ at their campsite; he’d disappeared last night after sending her out to find Hux. Rey had spent the night curled up in an uneasy ball in the hut, startling awake at every small sound in case it marked Ren’s return. But wherever he’d wandered, he hadn’t come back. Hux had been the one to break the news of the upcoming offensive to the company during roll call.

“We march in two days,” the lieutenant had said, his nasal voice cutting the air. “I expect you all to prepare accordingly.” 

But how is Rey to prepare? In three weeks she’s barely learned what an aide does during times of peace, let alone battle. Aides aren’t generally expected to fight, but surely Ren won’t have her butchering horses or digging latrines here at camp while the rest of the company marches? The mere thought makes Rey’s forehead crease with sudden anxiety. As little attachment as she has to Company K and her captain, staying here when they leave would feel uncomfortably close to being abandoned. 

_Again._

Perhaps because of these thoughts, the sight of the captain’s broad back at his camp table fills Rey with a strange sense of relief. She picks up her pace unconsciously, walking with renewed purpose. 

“Good morning, sir,” she says evenly, setting his plate on the table.

“Is it?” Ren replies acidly. He looks towards Rey; both of his eyes are bloodshot, the red lines just tracing more faintly under the gray. His face is abnormally pale, making his scars bulge like red-purple snakes in contrast.

“I’ll make coffee,” Rey says quickly, deflecting. All signs point towards Ren not having slept last night, which never bodes well for his mood. 

“Don’t bother,” he growls. He scratches his neck ill-temperedly, jerking his chin out towards the hut. “Go into my trunk and bring back my pistols.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rey obediently walks to the hut and crawls inside, sliding the makeshift door to one side. The interior is dimly lit by sunshine filtering in through the yellowed fabric of the tent-ceiling. Bathed in half-light, Rey squints towards the back wall where Ren keeps his trunk. She proceeds on her hands and knees across the hay covered floor, crossing the small space in just a few breaths.

Ren’s trunk is really more of a small wooden chest, unremarkably plain and closed with a simple latch. Still, Rey would never dare to breach its contents without Ren’s explicit permission. She remembers all too vividly the gruesome camp rumors that he collects trophies to mark every kill. Would Ren collect weapons? Belt buckles? Ears? Rey briefly imagines a string of dried ears like hard apple slices before shaking her head and unlatching the chest. Steeling herself, she opens the lid and finds…

Clothing. A stained shirt and second set of trousers sit, roughly folded, inside of the trunk. Breathing a sigh of relief, Rey cautiously moves those benign items aside and sees books and some papers, steel dip pens and ink, a few smaller wrapped items, and on top of it all: two gleaming Colt pistols. Rey picks them up gingerly, one in each hand, letting their weight settle comfortably into her palms. It’s a strangely heady feeling to hold the two guns. Alone for the moment, she turns and pretends to shoot to the left, then the right, sighting down the long barrels like she knows what she’s doing. It makes her feel powerful, like the Colts are a lethal extension of her own arms. But the only truly lethal force in the vicinity is Captain Ren, who might be wondering now why she’s taking so long. Rey hesitates over the trunk, sparing one last lingering glance at its contents. No belt buckles. No ears. She _does_ spot a bible, which makes her raise an eyebrow; she has many words for the captain, but _devout_ isn’t one. Stifling her curiosity, Rey sets down the pistols and packs Ren’s spare clothes back into place. She quickly flips the lid of the trunk shut with an elbow, then crawls back out of the hut with one pistol clutched in each hand.

The captain eyes Rey warily as she exits the stockade, growling when she almost drops the pistols in the snow.

“ _Careful_ with those,” he snarls, possessively tracking her progress. Rey hurriedly gets to her feet and makes to hand over the guns, but he shakes his head brusquely. “Go to Mitaka’s and get a pair of holsters for them,” he says flatly. “I want cartridges too, as many as you can carry without blowing your arms off.”

“Yes, sir,” says Rey. She awkwardly holds the pistols loose at her side. 

Ren sits back and eyes her sourly. “While you’re there, get a knapsack as well. I want you to fill it with rocks.”

Rey’s lips tighten slightly. “Rocks, sir?”

“Yes, rocks,” Ren snaps; he doesn’t like being questioned. He points impatiently at the hut’s chimney, studded with the large rocks Rey had hauled from the river banks. “Like those,” he says. “As big as the knapsack can take without breaking.” He pauses, an unpleasant gleam in his eyes. “It should _hurt_ to carry.”

“Should I bring them back here, sir?” Rey grits out, fighting the strong urge to fume. Any relief she had felt at the captain’s return burns up in the heat of her annoyance. Trust Ren to assign petty tasks two days out from a battle. 

“No,” says the captain dismissively, waving her off. “Find me at drill.”

\---

It takes a couple of hours, but Rey finally gets what she needs from the depot and fills her knapsack full of rocks. On one hand, she doesn’t want to break her own back, but on the other hand, she has a sneaking suspicion that the captain will send her right back to the river if he doesn’t think the load is sufficient. She compromises with a weight that makes her shoulder blades burn, but still allows her anger to burn even hotter, motivating each step. 

She treads heavily along the camp trails, half bowed from the strain of the weight. Mitaka had dredged up leather holsters for both of the captain’s Colt pistols, which are now strapped securely over either hip. A second satchel on her back holds a sizable sum of .44 paper cartridges, the small pre-packaged cylinders containing both bullet _and_ gunpowder to save time on reloading. Ren ought to be happy that she’s fetched him his things, but Rey can’t shake the feeling of being a mule. 

As she trudges towards the orchard, Rey starts to glimpse the full might of the army at drill, and it slows her steps further. Massive plough horses drag cannons across one wet field. In the distance, more horses whinny and wheel as a cavalry battalion lines up to practice their charge. In her immediate vicinity, infantrymen move in tandem through the rote steps of Napoleon’s Manual of Arms. Bayonets are fixed, rifles are raised, rifles are aimed, bayonets are thrust. Rey stops briefly to watch them, mesmerized by the smooth and identical motions. It’s the allure of war, in a way: all these disparate bodies reduced to one muscle, one literal _corps._ Rey can’t help but long to blend in with that body, to become just one man in a mass.

After several long moments of watching the drill, Rey’s shoulders cramp painfully, prompting her to keep moving. Since the field is so crowded today, she has to carefully scan the soldiers to find Company K. Finally, she makes out the red muttonchops of lieutenant Hux in the distance. A moment later captain Ren’s brittle bark makes it clear that she’s heading towards Company K: her island in the vastness that is the Potomac. 

Rey soon comes close enough to see Ren where he stands shouting orders, but of the soldiers, Hux spots her first. He eyes her two heavy knapsacks, his lips curled in a sneer.

“You look like a-”

“Mule, yes,” Rey snaps testily. “...sir.”

Hux snorts and spits chewing tobacco off to the side. “Is that all for the Captain?”

Rey glances back over towards Ren. Some poor recruit has just made a mistake; Ren is right in his face, roaring speculations on just _what_ fucked his mother to produce such a cretin.

“Yes, sir,” Rey says glumly.

Hux snickers. “Afraid to go poke the bear?” he taunts. 

Rey shoots him a glare. “Aren’t you?”

Hux smirks again, though the humor drains out of his eyes. “Of course I am, boy. I’ve seen what he can do.”

Rey glances at Hux curiously, but Ren chooses that moment to turn from the recruit in disgust. His bloodshot gaze falls upon Rey.

“Johnson,” he calls sharply. He snaps his fingers and points at the ground by his side.

“Careful,” lilts Hux, barely moving his lips.

Rey reluctantly leaves the lieutenant and trudges over towards Ren instead, downgraded from a mule to a dog.

“Give me those,” the man says immediately, gesturing towards Rey’s hips. Rey glances down at the pistols still strapped to her belt and immediately starts fumbling to loosen their clips. Ren flexes his fingers impatiently, as though he’d like to rip them off her to save precious seconds.

“Did he have cartridges?” the captain asks, glancing back towards the soldiers again. His expression is grim, and Rey can tell even from a quick glance that the rest of the company shares his tense mood. She can also smell Ren from where she stands: it’s his usual funk splashed with fresh rivulets of dank sweat. It’s unseasonably warm this morning, and the noon sun has peaked in the sky. The tramp of many boots has melted the thin snow into the ground, turning the field into muddy red clay. 

“That’s this bag,” Rey says tersely, nodding her chin towards the knapsack of cartridges, “and _these-_ ” Rey sloughs the huge bag of rocks off her back “-are the rocks.” She lets out an involuntary sigh, straightening her back in relief. “Do you want me to bring them back to your camp?” 

“ ** _Faster_** , _goddammit,”_ Ren suddenly bellows at his men, making Rey jump and nearly drop the pistols. “Johnny Reb won’t wait while you pick the hairs out of your ass!” 

The infantrymen speed up, fumbling to mock-load their rifles; live rounds aren’t used during drill. Ren growls at the sight, still unsatisfied. Rey waits a couple of breaths, then repeats carefully, “Sir? Should I bring them to camp?”

“What?” He refocuses, shooting her a sharp glare.

“The bags,” Rey says, lightly kicking the sack. “Where should I take them?”

“They’re staying,” Ren snaps. He finally notes the pistols in her hands and grabs them. “ _You_ ’ _re_ staying.” 

“Yes, sir,” Rey says automatically, trying to be reasonable. She’s never stood in on a drill before now.

Ren’s head whips, hawklike, back towards the soldiers. “ _Hopkins_ ,” he snarls, his spit slashing the air, “get your rifle butt _off of the ground!”_

The offending soldier yelps quietly, hastily raising his arms. Rey twists her fingers uncertainly, desperate to extricate herself from the range of Ren’s ire. “I’ll just stand to the side, then…?”

The captain swings his head back to face her. “ _No,_ ” he says with strained preciseness, and Rey falls still. “You’re here with us, you drill with us. I won’t have useless men on the field.” He holds both pistols clamped in one hand and looks away, searching until he spots one of the sergeants. It’s the youngest-looking one of the five Mainers, a lean man with short curly brown hair.

“Oushar!”

The sergeant peels off from the line of infantrymen. He trots over to where Rey and Ren stand, holding his rifle tucked up across his chest. Ren starts fastening one of the pistols onto his belt in the meantime.

“Give him your gun,” Ren says curtly to Oushar, nodding his chin towards Rey.

Oushar laughs and drawls something in his thick woodland accent.

Ren shrugs.

Rey looks between the two men, but Oushar only grins and holds his musket out towards her.

It’s a rifle-musket, technically speaking. The 1853 Enfield is a dependable gun used on both sides of the war, arguably the first mass produced gun in this fractured America. For Rey, it’s a _tall_ gun, almost as tall as the captain. The gun slopes for 55 inches of dully polished wood, but its barrel is capped with a wicked metal tip: 18 inches of steel bayonet. She takes the gun gingerly out of Oushar’s hands, her biceps tensing preemptively to balance its weight. If holding the pistols felt like extending her arms, this musket feels like a fifth limb entirely.

Rey swallows uncertainly. “Where should I-”

The captain’s eyes flick back onto her, scanning her briefly. Then he nods towards the ranks, a darkening gleam in his eye. “Fall in line, soldier.”

\---

Rey has used a musket before, on occasion. Plutt kept an old, clunky model over the farmhouse mantel and used it sporadically to fend off animals. The man wasn’t much of a hunter, but you couldn’t live in the woods of Virginia without having a gun; it just wasn’t safe.

Often, when Plutt left to sell crops, Rey would amuse herself by pulling down the old gun and examining it. She knew how to load it but only fired infrequently, because Plutt was stingy with the ammunition and endlessly griped about each “wasted” shot. Instead, Rey would stand on the porch holding the musket on her shoulder, sighting along it while tracking the progress of chipmunks and birds. 

“Bang,” she’d whisper at a squirrel she’d named Plutt.

“Bang,” she’d murmur, squinting at a tall, nodding flower whose bloom she imagined to be Mrs. Gibson. Mrs. Gibson, who sniffed when she saw her in church like she smelled poverty.

Now, while drilling with Company K, Rey doesn’t have targets to aim at. Instead, she and the other soldiers pretend to load and point their muskets over and over and _over_ again. As in battle, they stand in doubled ranks so that one line of men can shoot while the others behind them reload; it’s a Napoleonic tactic that widens the line of fire but requires coordination and swiftness on the part of the soldiers. Unsurprisingly, Ren is a fierce taskmaster, and the sergeants and Hux are extensions of his will. They urge the infantrymen to move quickly, cleanly. No movement can be wasted, no time can be lost. Rey stumbles through the motions, doing her best to imitate what the others are doing. They seem as surprised as she is to be here.

“You piss off the captain or somethin’?” whispers Holden, a fellow recruit. Rey had marched with him all the way from D.C.. Now she stands at his shoulder, reloading.

“Could be,” Rey admits. She curses her ramrod under her breath, trying to guide the long, spindly thing _into_ the barrel of her musket.

“Hold it close to the middle,” Holden says quietly, his eyes aimed out towards the field. “It won’t wobble so much.”

Rey spares a glance towards him. “Thank you,” she says, and is surprised to find that she means it. 

Unfortunately, Ren soon decides to pit the men against each other.

“You’re _lagging_ ,” he shouts, loud enough the whole company hears. “Form two lines, facing each other!”

The infantrymen hesitate for a moment, confused. Drills tend to follow a precise set of actions, and it seems like this action is one that hasn’t been previously done. The sergeants have to wade in, shoving some men into place, before everyone snaps into motion. Rey drifts into place with the rest of the soldiers, finding herself facing another recruit. He stands a few yards away, facing her. To Rey’s left and her right, the rest of the company has arranged themselves in the same way, forming two lines of soldiers facing each other. 

Ren paces behind their backs like vulture, wheeling. “Many of you haven’t shot a man before,” he yells, treading heavily through the fresh mud. “It may make you nervous. It may make you slow.” He scowls and adds darkly, “If you’re _weak_.”

The recruits shift uncomfortably. Rey sneaks a glance at the soldiers across from her, and sees self-doubt in their faces.

“Your enemy should be the best motivation you have,” Ren continues, his harsh voice projecting. “He’s right in front of you, and he’ll kill you if you don’t kill him.” The captain pauses in place, surveying the two lines.

“At my signal,” he calls, “you will mock-load and fire your weapon at the soldier across from you. If he’s faster than you, you die. Corpses reform into new pairs. The slowest man, the man killed the most times, will run laps around the company wearing-” Ren kicks Rey’s knapsack “-this bag of rocks for the remainder of drill.” He glares out at his soldiers, a scowl etched on his face. “In Fredericksburg, you’ll only die once. Begin!”

The two lines snap quickly into action. Rey doesn’t actually have a pouch of cartridges, but she goes through the motion of reaching down to her side. The regular soldiers pull out a single cartridge from their pouch but don’t rip it, only taking long enough to bring it up to the muzzle of their rifles.

_Cartridge first, then bullet..._

Rey finds herself trying to remember Ren’s actions from his target practice. She reaches for her ramrod next, flustered to see that the recruit across from her already is pulling his ramrod back out of his gunbarrel. She wastes a precious breath trying not to feel upset about it- she’s only an inexperienced aide, after all- then grimly keeps going. Still, Rey braces herself for the inevitable-

“Fire!” the recruit across from her yells. His voice is tinged with triumph, his musket lofted up onto his shoulder and pointing at Rey. All down the line, other voices are shouting victoriously, while some groan in defeat. Rey just shifts her jaw tightly and nods at her opponent, hefting her musket up and starting to walk to the new line of “corpses.”

Rey loses the next round, and the next. In both cases, her opponents are pleased albeit apologetic; they logically know that she’s greener than they are, but that doesn’t dull the satisfied flush in their cheeks. All across the drill lines, competition lends this monotonous act of loading their muskets a thrilling edge. Rey grudgingly has to admit it’s effectively speeding up the men, even as her mood blackens with each successive loss.

Rey’s next few defeats are especially bitter. The best soldiers are still in the first few lines battling it out, but she and the rest of the dregs grow more vicious with time. The sergeants keep a close eye on the proceedings, growling at soldiers who try skipping a step to speed up their process. Even then, some of the rounds are too close to call. Rey barely loses to a veteran missing three fingers and she quietly snarls to herself, her annoyance bubbling up onto the surface. That damn bag of rocks is almost upon her, and she knows better than to hope that the captain will absolve her from punishment on account of her being his aide. Even worse, her pride has been sorely damaged; out of 100 soldiers, she’s now lost her way down to the very bottom.

Seething, Rey finally squares up against a gap-toothed recruit. They are, objectively, the worst and second worst soldiers of Company K.

One of the sergeants, Trugenne, has been supervising these past few rounds, but Rey senses Ren nearby the same way she would sense a predator’s presence by the silence of birds. She can already picture the smirk he’ll give her when she straps on that back-breaking sack. Rey logically _knows_ she can handle the jog, and the pain. She _knows_ it will be better to lose gracefully. 

She just doesn’t want to.

Trugenne starts them off.

_Cartridge, bullet_ , thinks Rey, her hands moving quickly. The world narrows down to her gun and her breath. Peripherally, she can sense that Gap-Tooth is also moving, probably desperate not to lose to a mere aide.

A mere aide. A mule. Ren’s _dog_.

Anger wells in Rey’s chest, giving her clarity, speeding her thoughts. Her breath blows harsh but even. _Ramrod down, ramrod back. Pull back hammer._

Lifting her weapon to pull back the hammer, Rey sees that Gap-Tooth has just done the same step; it’s going to be close. Rey’s eyes narrow, something hot and acidic burning under her ribs: a weird rising thrill. She fixes the cap to the musket with hands that should shake but do not. She hefts her weapon up onto her shoulder, seeing at the same time that Gap-Tooth has _just_ mirrored her movement. His mouth is already open to say “Fire!” and triumph burns in his eyes but-

Rey lunges.

It’s an instinctual movement, like raising her hand. The musket is her fifth arm, and it has one sharp finger: the steel bayonet. Lancing with Rey’s momentum, her lethal digit stops just short of Gap-Tooth’s scrawny neck, the point of the blade nearly piercing his miserable scrub of a beard. The boy startles with fear, his eyes opening wide, and Rey’s anger roars _good._

“Fire,” she says grimly.

Gap-Tooth opens his mouth like a fish, his lips trembling. “That’s not…” He trails off, looking back towards Trugenne for support. “That’s cheating!”

“That’s killing,” a harsh voice corrects from the side.

Rey glances over, still holding her musket in place. Captain Ren is surveying the scene with crossed arms, looking at Gap-Tooth with a disgusted expression. Behind him, the nearest lines of soldiers have stopped what they’re doing to watch.

“If this happens at Fredericksburg,” Ren says flatly, but loudly, so that all men can hear, “you will die. You didn’t duck, or dodge, or block Private Johnson. You only _stood_ there and waited for someone to stop it.”

Gap-Tooth wilts shamefully under Ren’s words, and Rey finally lowers her weapon. A sudden rush of cold sweat sweeps her body as she realizes just how badly she’s stepped out of line, just how much trouble she might be in now. She cradles her musket carefully, anxious that Ren’s ire will now turn towards her. But he’s still glaring at Gap-Tooth. 

“No one will stop the battle for you,” grates the captain. Each word comes out pointed, like darts he hopes to pin to a board. “No one catches the bullets for you. No one kills for you, no one stops the blade falling. Only you can try. Only you can fail. Do you understand?”

Gap-Tooth clears his throat nervously. “Yes, sir,” he says faintly.

Ren considers the boy for a long moment; then his split lip curls. It’s a bitter expression. “No you don’t,” he says simply, his words ugly with truth. “But you will.”

With those ominous words, Ren turns back towards Trugenne.

“Get him started with laps,” he says gruffly, pointing at Gap-Tooth, “and work with the rest of this lot on their form. _You heard me! Line up!_ ”

That last statement is aimed at the rest of the company; the men startle and hastily avert their eyes. Rey keeps standing in place for a moment longer, watching Ren’s retreating figure. She wonders why he didn’t look at her, let alone reprimand her...and wonders more at her vague disappointment. 

\---

The mood of the company is subdued when they’re dismissed from drill. Rey’s arms ache from holding Oushar’s gun upright for so long, and she still can’t look her fellow soldiers in the eye, too embarrassed about her murderous lapse. She keeps mentally reviewing those few heated seconds like a tongue would probe at a loosened tooth. She hadn’t harmed Gap-Tooth with her lunge, but it had felt unnervingly _right_ to attack her fellow recruit. She _could_ have hurt him. She _would_ have hurt him, if he’d had the nerve and the wits to fight back. Rey bites her bottom lip hard, trying to use the sharp pain to distract herself from the anxious what-ifs in her mind. She feels too unsettled, her emotions abnormally close to the surface and eager to spill.

Through sheer effort, Rey finally returns her thoughts to the captain; he’ll likely have orders for her now that drill has let out. She breathes a cut sigh and scans the orchard, quickly spotting him in the near distance. The captain stands like a stone pillar amidst the moving infantrymen, frowning down at the mud on his boots but not looking exceptionally vicious. Rey takes that as a good sign and starts cutting through the departing soldiers to reach him, making sure to approach at an angle where he can see her with his good eye. As soon as she walks within range, Ren starts speaking without looking up; he seems weary. 

“Go to the depot,” he says, his voice hoarse from shouting commands. “I want a bottle of whiskey brought back to my camp and I _don’t_ want to see you again until you’re bringing my dinner. Is that clear?” He glances up at her to see her answer.

“Yes, sir,” Rey says simply. She hesitates, though; now might be the best time to ask Ren if she’ll march with the men. “Sir, I’m wondering-”

“Wonder on the way,” he growls, waving her off.

She takes a firm breath. “But sir-”

“Go!” he snaps, his mood kindling abruptly to fury. Ren’s command rings loudly enough that some passing soldiers shoot them curious glances. Rey, for her part, steps back quickly and nods, turning to make her way off of the field. There’s something in Ren’s mismatched glare that’s both angry _and_ troubled, and she’s not up to handling either disposition.

\---

Back at the depot, Mitaka is not amused to see Rey so soon again after her previous visit.

“Really,” the man blusters, wringing his thin hands, “Company K isn’t special, you know. I can’t keep fulfilling these...special requests!”

Rey pulls out an amber bottle of whiskey from the crate in front of her, then a second one for good measure. “By all means,” she says dryly. “Go tell Captain Ren.” She straightens and levels the quartermaster with a cool stare. “I’m certain he’d _love_ to correct you tonight. He’s in just the right mood.”

Mitaka sniffs and crosses his arms. “I won’t be intimidated,” he says, sounding intimidated.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Rey says insincerely. As she refastens the lid to the crate of liquor bottles, she wonders vaguely when she’d gained enough confidence to bully Mitaka. It’s possible that handling the captain day in and day out is generally roughening her manners, not to mention her monthly bleeding tends to sharpen her tongue. Still, Rey forces herself to flash Mitaka a mostly-respectful salute before walking away. It won’t do to make enemies in camp, and Gap-Tooth might already hate her after today.

Rey walks the long, sludgy lanes back towards Company K, trying her best not to slip in the mud. The sun is on its way down, but it’s still warm out for January, and the sky is steadily filling with clouds. She glances up at the encroaching gray front, wondering vaguely if it might snow or rain. Would that matter to Burnside? Would he halt the offensive? From what Rey has heard from the men, General Burnside fully commits to his battle plans once they’ve been made, sometimes with disastrous results.

Once past the perimeter of Company K, Rey starts taking a now-familiar route back to the captain’s campsite. Most of the infantrymen are hunkered down in their stockades, but some are lingering outside by their fires and speaking in low voices. Rey is debating slowing down to try and eavesdrop when a high whistle catches her attention; she turns.

Three of Ren’s sergeants are sitting out by their fire in only shirtsleeves. Rey recognizes the hulking back facing her to be Cardeaux’s, but the other two take a moment longer to place. Quruque has a distinct rolling gait when he walks, but seated, he stands out for the red hairs shining like copper throughout his trimmed beard. The one on the right, Appleque, has a long, sorrowful face only accentuated by his drooping mustache. Rey has never had reason to engage with the sergeants aside from their memorable training with Ren, plus the few times she’s borrowed a needle and thread. And yet, when Rey makes eye contact, Quruque whistles again, clearly waving her over. 

Rey still hesitates for a moment. On one hand, Ren won’t like being kept waiting; on the other hand, the sergeants might have a message for him. Rey internally sighs and makes her decision, reluctantly changing course towards their fire.

Quruque waves again, smirking broadly at Rey as she approaches. He points at Appleque and says without preamble, “‘E wants to know why you don’t cut the boy.”

It takes Rey a second before realizing that he’s talking about Gap-Tooth. She stiffens in place, trying not to visibly react. 

“I didn’t mean to…” Attack him? Kill him? “...fight,” Rey ends awkwardly.

Quruque snorts and turns towards Appleque, speaking swiftly to him in some patois that might be a second cousin twice removed from English. Appleque shakes his head as he listens, his hands paused in the act of packing a pipe with tobacco. He looks up at Rey as Quruque finishes and starts speaking to her, a disapproving look on his face.

“I...I’m not sure what you’re-” Rey says, trying to parse the unfamiliar language.

“‘E says soldiers fight,” Quruque translates.

Rey has both liquor bottles tucked under her armpits. She shifts them now, a barely disguised shrug. “Aides don’t.”

Behind her, Cardeaux audibly huffs. Rey turns and sees the huge sergeant is whittling another wood pipe; perhaps a sibling to the one Appleque’s smoking. 

“Well, it’s true,” Rey says defensively, forgetting her manners.

“Is true, maybe,” Quruque lilts. “For some. Not for the aide of Ren.”

Rey’s lips twist; she fights a pulse of annoyance. “I heard his last aide wasn’t much of a fighter,” she says dryly. “Sir.”

Appleque chuckles; apparently the sergeant can understand more English than he speaks. Quruque’s lips spread in an unpleasant smile.

“You ‘ear this?” he prompts.

Rey treads carefully here. “I heard that his collarbone broke,” she says slowly, leaving out that it was Ren who did it. Or who _thinks_ he did it. 

Cardeaux only grunts. Quruque, though, nods in confirmation, then mimes holding something heavy and lifting it up.

“Like this,” he grunts, forcefully swinging the invisible object down. Rey’s eyes widen a bit, though at this point it shouldn’t surprise her that Ren attacked someone; the promise of violence surrounds the captain like steam rising from a hot bath. Quruque notes her reaction and _tsks_ , waving his hand flippantly.

“‘E was sick,” he rumbles, as though that makes it better. He taps his temple with one finger. “Not in right ‘ead.”

“Because of the morphine?” she asks, aghast.

“Because _no_ morphine.” Quruque corrects in his rough burr, shaking his head.

Cardeaux finally stops whittling and looks up at Rey seriously. “‘E ask you for it?” he asks thickly.

Rey furrows her brow. “For morphine?”

Cardeaux nods, still watching her gravely. She can feel Quruque and Appleque’s attention sharpen on her back, and it prompts her to be honest.

“No,” Rey says, shaking her head. She glances between the three men, awkwardly pulling out the two bottles of whiskey from under her arms. “He just asks for spirits. Never morphine.”

“Good.” 

With that guttural utterance, Cardeaux looks back to his whittling knife. The other men seem to subtly relax, and Rey is left bewildered. She doesn’t understand why Ren shouldn’t have morphine, a common painkiller for Federal soldiers. More importantly, though, she doesn’t understand why the sergeants would care. It makes Rey, for the first time, consider that perhaps these sergeants are more than Ren’s punching bags. Perhaps, implausibly, they might be his friends.

Quruque takes note of Rey’s confused expression and interprets it incorrectly. “Whiskey,” he says in a considering tone, “Eh.” He waggles his hand in a so-so gesture. “Morphine,” he says, shaking his head firmly. “No good.” He draws a line across his neck and leans in. “‘E ask you for it, you say no.”

Rey’s lips twitch. “And what if he breaks _my_ bones?” 

Appleque snorts, putting down his own pipe. “‘E will not,” the man says in slow, halting English. “ _Tu es comme de pierre.”_ He looks over at the others. “ _Comment tu dis-?”_

“Like stone,” Quruque translates, nodding towards Rey. He knocks his own collarbone and laughs. “You don’t break.”

Rey’s lips twitch again, humorlessly, as she thinks of the countless times she’s almost lost her temper at Ren. “If you say so.”

Appleque shrugs and gets back to his pipe. “Is why ‘e like you.”

Rey’s eyebrows jolt up in sheer disbelief. Appleque and Quruque both laugh at her expression, and even Cardeaux glances up to gauge her reaction. 

“I…” Rey begins speaking, but it’s simply not possible to finish her sentence, especially if these men are friendly with Ren.

_I think he wants to kill me,_ she says, safe in her head. _But I wish that I could kill him first._

Even as she thinks it, she locks eyes with Cardeaux. The sergeant looks back at her coolly, flicking a long curl of wood from his knife; there’s something unnervingly knowing in his dark eyes. Rey tears her gaze away first, feeling strangely guilty.

“I have to deliver the whiskey,” Rey says out loud, stumbling over her own lame excuse. 

Quruque waves her off, still amused. Appleque just shakes his head, taking a long pull from his pipe. And Cardeaux watches her go before bending back down to his whittling, the faintest of smiles hiding deep in his beard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, it's been a little while! I originally meant for this chapter to cover Rey's entire day, but I quickly realized that it would be a looooong chapter if I tried to do that...so I've split it up. I hope you enjoyed part 1! In case you were confused by Rey's conversation with the sergeants, basically the sergeants confirmed that Ren did hurt his aide, but he did it while he was going through morphine withdrawal. The sergeants also want to make sure Rey doesn't give Ren any morphine even if he asks for it; they'd prefer if he drinks to take the edge off his pain. Kylo's morphine use will NOT be a major plot point, but morphine use and addiction were widespread during the Civil War and it's also true that Kylo's wounds from Fredericksburg were and continue to be very painful. 
> 
> People's overall reaction to this work has been overwhelmingly positive, and I really, truly, appreciate that. It means the world to me to read your comments. I've also been gifted some [very](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Ei7jathUMAAoXFE?format=jpg&name=large) [lovely](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Ei7jauRVoAEXQbb?format=jpg&name=medium) [manips](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Eh47_X6XcAEhOzL?format=jpg&name=small) and commissioned [a piece](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EhuWi0kXkAAsVQz?format=jpg&name=large) from the talented Selunchen! I'm so glad you all love this Dirty Dyad as much as I do <3
> 
> On a personal note, the past month has been incredibly crazy for me, thus the lag on an update. I'm in a support role at a school, so these past weeks I've been working tens of hours of overtime on evenings and weekends to Get Kids Educated. If you're craving some content between updates, feel free to check out my other work or follow on Twitter @doorkeeper91
> 
> Stay safe and sane out there <3
> 
> References  
> -The [metal dip pens](http://www.historyofpencils.com/writing-instruments-history/dip-pen-history/) Rey found in Kylo's trunk had replaced quills by the time of the Civil War. Our boy loves calligraphy in canon, so I couldn't resist giving him some.  
> -I know nothing about guns. Sorry. But the [1853 Enfield](https://i.ebayimg.com/images/g/UNAAAOSwrY9a~OQP/s-l640.jpg) was widely used during the war by both sides, and it looked badass when you attached [the bayonet](https://qph.fs.quoracdn.net/main-qimg-20c50501677669365818bfd50bb8e90d). Kylo's [pistols](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colt_Army_Model_1860) were the most widely used type at the time as well, and they had some cool looking [holsters](http://www.carricoleather.com/militarybeltsholsters.html).


	7. The Slaughter Pen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A battle, a bottle, a bird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: descriptions of a bloody battle
> 
> [HERE](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/ElsqJenXYAA8nfp?format=jpg&name=4096x4096) is a moodboard for this chapter. 
> 
> Head's up: there's a sequence where 3 different people are talking about the same event in a way that overlaps. The order is always Miller-Carter-Hendricks. There are moments where their accounts of what happened differ, which is purposeful, since our memories make us unreliable narrators. Also, the Union army referred to itself as the Federal army at the time, so when you're reading "Federal" = "Union."

Captain Ren is mercifully inside the hut when Rey arrives with her two bottles of whiskey a few minutes later. She approaches the makeshift door head-on, her eyes drawn to the dim glow of a candle shining diffusely through the tent-roof. It’s only the late afternoon, and yet with the stormy gray clouds gathering overhead, the candlelight shines like a beacon.

Rey crouches beside the entrance and cocks her head to one side, listening.

“I’ve brought you the whiskey,” she calls quietly.

There’s no answer, but Rey thinks she hears the sharp flip of a page being turned. She shifts on her heels.

“I’m going to leave it outside of the door,” she calls again. Then adds dispiritedly, “so you don’t have to see me.”

“Good.” The captain’s words are flat and immediate, only slightly dulled by the wooden hut walls. Rey shoots an unfiltered glare at the building as though it were Ren himself, then plants the two bottles on either side of the doorframe.

“I’ll be back with your dinner this evening,” she says coolly, and of course this time there’s no answer. Why would there be?

_He likes me, indeed,_ she thinks scathingly, getting up to her feet and dusting her thighs. She stalks away from their campsite- _his_ campsite- without a backwards glance.

\---

The men have precious free time to themselves after drill, and it’s normally Rey’s favorite time of day. Men gather around fires and talk with each other, trading stories and gossip and boasts in loud voices. Soldiers take out their books, or their whittling, or games. Best of all, almost every company has a few musicians. The more serious ones brought their fiddles and banjos and guitars to war, but the clever ones carry only their voices. Rey’s steps always slow when she hears the men singing some strange, Northern song; her mind hoards the new tunes like a dry patch of sand would suck water. 

But tonight, all she hears in the air are the faint notes of fear.

There’s a brittleness to the men’s laughter, a tendency for their conversations to trail off into silence. Heavy-bellied gray clouds swallow the last of the sunlight over camp and the soldiers are left in the dark and the waiting. Rey finds herself walking more briskly to push through her own growing dread, but she has nothing to do and nowhere to be until dinner. She curses the captain under her breath, wishing for once that the beast had given her some mindless task to distract herself with. Instead, she must seek out her own.

Miller is a fellow infantryman, long and lean like a dried string of beef and almost as weathered. He dotes on a stable of ornery mules, one of the few soldiers who can get close enough to feed them without being snapped at. Rey spots him near Mitaka’s depot hauling hay bales off of a wagon; she walks up to his side and takes hold of one of the bales herself. Miller shoots her a sardonic look of surprise, but the two know each other; Rey’s spent many mornings with him while mucking out stalls at the captain’s command. The two don’t talk much as a rule, which suits them both fine. 

“I need to do something,” Rey says quietly now, her hands twitching slightly against the hay bale.

Miller gives her a look-over before nodding shortly. Together, they start carrying the hay towards the stables. They walk in pensive silence for several long moments before, like a sneeze, Rey finds herself asking The Question:

“What happened at Fredericksburg?”

\---

Rey asks The Question four times that night.

To Miller, while carrying hay bales.

To Carter, the young company bugler, while they refill their canteens.

To Hendricks, one of most long-lived soldiers, while they eat dinner around a campfire.

And she asks one more time after that.

“What happened at Fredericksburg?” Rey asks them all.

_“Bad business,” says Miller, not looking at her as he walks._

_“I really shouldn’t tell you,” says Carter reluctantly. “Not right before we return.”_

_“I bet ye’d like to know,” cackles Hendricks, pausing between bites. He flashes his gaze around the campfire, eyeing the other gathered recruits. “I bet ye’d all like to know,” he says scornfully, flashing his square yellow teeth._

...and they tell her. They tell her in pieces, and yet all at once.

\---

_They depended on boats to cross the wide river: pontoon boats that sailed down from DC to lay out like a bridge that the soldiers could walk out across. But the boats came too late; a clerical error. They came full weeks too late, and by then the Confederates knew they were coming._

“We were supposed to cross early,” Miller says as he shifts the hay bale on his shoulder. “We were supposed to _surprise_ them, and we sure as hell didn’t. Should have called off the whole thing, but of course Burnside wouldn’t.” He spits to the side.

“The captain got real mad,” Carter confides. Seeing Rey’s face he adds, “well, madder’n usual. He said that we wouldn’t get close.”

“‘Course ye _want_ to get close, have a scrap,” Hendricks sniffs, itching his nose with his thumb. “We were spoilin’ for it. We were _thirsty_ , after Antietam.”

“We all crossed,” Miller says, “but just barely. They kept sniping the bridge engineers.”

“That town should have been the first sign,” Carter says with a grimace. “We shelled it real good, but we still had to fight in the streets just to clear it.”

“O’ course we got the town,” Hendricks says, stabbing his fork in the air. “But that didn’t mean nothing, did it?” He surveys the recruits like a schoolmaster. “Didn’t matter at all, because Lee wasn’t there. Not his real army, no sir.” He jabs his fork skyward. “They were up on that _hill_.”

_There was thick fog that December morning. Heavy mist, as though nature was hiding its face from the bloodshed to come. And yet nature chose sides; it gave the Confederates a high ridge to station their cannons upon. The Federal soldiers had a only a sunken flood plain crossed by treacherous ditches. Rebel gunners would call it “a field upon which a chicken could not live.”_

“We tried to just march in,” Miller says, his lips twisting. “They had guns three men deep and an artillery line and we _marched in,”_ he spits, his hand clenched in the hay. “Nearly made us all deaf, when they fired. Saw the soldiers in front of us plain disappear.” 

“They went off like fireworks,” says Carter gamely, though his young face is pale. “But you keep going. You walk on, well, trip on, well…” He takes a deep breath, looks at Rey. “You step over the bodies.”

“The guns pinned us down in the mud,” Hendricks says, grimly chewing a stiff piece of gristle. “We couldn’t get forward and couldn’t go back, so we crawled on our bellies and _held_ the position _._ ” He shoots a dark look over at the recruits. “It ain’t pretty, waiting under fire.”

_In song there’s the rockets’ red glare and bombs bursting in air, and that part is true. The missiles do blaze with a whistling scream. The bombs do explode up above if they’re well-aimed, or straight into men if they’re not. But there is no mention of shrapnel ripping like rain into unshielded flesh. The lyrics do not speak of the trembling of soldiers and earth, or the way the air shuts like a fist when the cannons go off with an echoing roar like drummed thunder._

“They filled ditches with us,” Miller says, his voice bitter and tight. “We crawled, and we choked, and we suffered, waiting for our left flank to break through and distract them, but they never did.”

“You can’t know what it’s like,” Carter says, his gaze haunted. “I saw a horse fly, only it wasn’t flying. I saw a man’s head turn to red dust, just... _pfft._ ” He puffs his hand wide. 

“O’ course, we had the captain,” Hendricks says, lightening. “He kept us steady. He kept us shooting back at the rebels.” The veteran sounds almost proud. “I was right by Captain Ren,” he says smugly, “when he said-” he puts on a growl “-‘we’re taking those guns.’” 

“‘-we’re gutting those rebs.’”

“‘-we’re getting out of this-’ pardon me- ‘whoresucking pit.’”

They sit back, satisfied. 

“And we did.”

_An explosion among the Confederates halted their assault. It was a mistake, self-inflicted, but it was enough for the Federal troops. Four thousand men rose up from the mud. Their wool clothes were soaked and weighed down their limbs. Their ammunition was low from shooting into the smoke. But they ran for the single weak spot in the enemy line: a sliver of half-frozen swamp._

“They weren’t expecting us there,” Miller says. “ _I_ wasn’t expecting us there; it was madness to go on.”

“It was just cold enough that you could walk on it,” Carter says, his canteen long forgotten. “But we couldn’t just _walk_. So we _ran.”_

“Up we go,” Hendricks says with real fervor, “ducking an’ diving an’ crawling. The captain leads us, o’ course. He leads from the front,” he declares. “Always does.”

“He’s insane,” Miller says with a grimace.

“He’s mad,” Carter says, his eyes wide.

“He’s a hero,” Hendricks proudly declares. “So he’s shouting an’ shooting an’ waving us up, his hounds at his sides-”

_“His hounds?” Rey interrupts._

_“The sergeants,” another man supplies._

_“They like blood just as much as he does,” Hendricks affirms. “They run silent but they got big enough teeth, that’s for sure.” He shifts on his log then picks back up the thread_ : 

“Them big guns turned towards us and they ripped us up bloody, but we made it through to the hill where they sat.”

“Right up into three sides of fire,” says Miller.

“Right up into a trap,” says Carter.

“Right up into some trouble,” Hendricks concedes, though his eyes still glow bright with the memory. “Men falling like nine-pins, guts punched out they backs by the cannons. But we kept comin’ right up to the guns.”

“There’s six men to each gun,” Miller says, hefting the hay bale off of his shoulder. “They load it and guard it.”

“We had to take out the guns,” Carter says seriously, “there wasn’t any time…”

“The captain gets three of the men quick as thinkin’,” says Hendricks. He leans closer to Rey, one hand pointed at her like he’s holding a pistol. “He pops them real easy, just _one two_ and _three_ , just standing and pointing. His hounds jump and they gut the two others.” Slyly, Hendricks taps the side of his nose with one finger, still looking at Rey. “But there’s still the sixth man, isn’t there?”

Miller’s lips twist. “He was a big man, the sixth gunner. Big and _quick._ He jumped at the captain and _cut-”_

“-had a bowie knife gripped in both hands-”

“-he came down like a thunderbolt, holdin’ that knife and he-”

“-knocked the captain right down into the mud,” Miller says with a grunt. “Didn’t think any man could, but that reb devil did. Knocked him onto his back and kept cutting.”

“I heard him roar,” Carter says in a hushed voice. “They were thrashing and I could see blood; I thought he was a goner.”

“The captain fought back,” Hendricks says, sounding almost defensive. “That rebel was on him like a dog on a bone, but he _fought_ .” His voice rises. He raises his hands into fists. “The captain _got_ him in the jaw-” he mimes punching “-then got him by the _knife_ -” he grabs his left wrist with his right hand, grappling, like it belongs to a stranger “-and then he…” now he mimes grabbing a throat, lifting up with great strain “... _lifted_ him up and he-”

Miller only winces.

Carter looks sick and won’t answer Rey’s question. 

“-breaks his head on the cannon,” crows Hendricks, his face lit with triumph. “He smashed that fuckin’ skull until it weren’t nothin’ but scraps on a stick.”

_Rey just blinks, her whole body taut with the story._

_A green private heaves, his stew burping back out past his lips._

_Hendricks tsks and flutters one hand. “It’s war, boy,” he scoffs at the sickly recruit, “and we’d only just begun.”_

Miller sighs heavily, still watching his mules; up above, the dark clouds lightly rumble. “The captain drops the...body. He gets up, his whole face streaming red, and he picks up his pistols-”

“-he picks up his knives-”

“-he used his bare fists-”

“-and he starts killing rebels.” 

“It was…” Carter’s thin voice trails off. 

“Terrible,” says Hendricks with a grin like he’s telling ghost stories. “Him an’ his hounds go off hunting, roaring like thunder.”

“It was dark times,” says Miller. “We were near out of bullets and they weren’t much better. Our muskets were just ten-pound clubs.” The older man throws his hay into the stall with more force than necessary, spooking the mules. “No fighting like soldiers in spaces like that,” he says flatly. “You fight other ways, like an animal.” He looks up at Rey. “Your captain,” he says slow, “he’s good at those ways.”

“We followed the captain, of course,” Carter says. His eyes flicker dully, lost in the memory. “It was all powder and smoke. Screaming and blood. We were all packed so close...you didn’t know if the man next to you would be rebel or federal or Death himself.” He shudders minutely.

“He likes to fight close, does the captain,” says Hendricks, his eyes gleaming dark in the firelight, the sky starting to thunder above. “The Butcher of Bull Run is what we called him, on account of that knife.” He looks around the fire almost disdainfully. “None of ye was there in those days. _Early_ days. Ye didn’t see him like I did, up to his elbows in fresh southern blood.”

Miller watches the mules eat, his own jaw grinding. “Saw him a couple of times, in the smoke,” he says finally. “Saw him wrestle a pistol down somebody’s mouth, and then shoot it.” He reaches out, strokes a mule’s muzzle. “Saw his eye weeping blood.”

“Saw him break a man’s neck with his hands,” whispers Carter, quite pale. Rey silently offers her canteen of water. Carter sips from it, fiddles with the cord. “There were so many dead,” he says softly, not looking at Rey. “All over the hill. Couldn’t hardly stand for the bodies. I knew-” his voice cuts off sharply, like his throat has become too tight to speak. Rey looks away, affording him some kind of peace. 

“It was bloody, alright,” Hendricks declares approvingly.

“It wasn’t enough,” Miller says, his voice bleak. “The longer we stood there, the more of us fell. The rebels had backup and we just had the hill.” He sighs. “They called it the slaughter pen.”

“They wouldn’t send men,” Carter says, still looking away. “We’d broken the enemy line but we couldn’t advance without help.”

“They can all rot in hell,” Hendricks snarls, spitting down at his feet. “Every man who just sat back an’ let us do the dyin’.”

Miller takes a deep breath. “So they sounded the retreat. There was nothing else to be done. Couldn’t drag back the dead, but they did drag the captain.”

“Think he’d taken a shot to the side,” Carter adds. “Not to mention the-” he gestures vaguely over his face.

“We made the ground bleed,” Hendricks says with dark pride. “Some of it was theirs, that’s for sure.” He trails off, his gaze distant. The first hard drops of rain start to fall. “That’s for sure,” he repeats.

But Rey doesn’t think he sounds sure.

\---

_In the end, it was utter defeat for the Union; the earth wept northern blood from twelve thousand wounds. The still air hung heavy with fired gunpowder, and rang with the slow dying cries of soldiers and their horses. The great army had risen up like a blue wave to wash the high enemy ridge...and broken upon it. They trickled back, impotent, to lick their deep wounds across the wide river._

_Until January, that is, when Burnside commanded them all to return._

_\---_

Rain pours down from the rumbling night sky, scattering the recruits back out into the darkness. Having left Hendricks’ fire, Rey clutches the captain’s lukewarm dinner close to her chest and makes her way towards his campsite, thoughts all awhirl with knives and mud and cannonfire. With _Fredericksburg_.

The rain whips across her face in thin, icy sheets; Rey pulls her cap down until the bill nearly touches her nose and hunches her shoulders, walking as quickly along the camp paths as she possibly can without slipping in mud. Peripherally, Rey hears soldiers hollering to each other over the thunder as they stretch rubber sheeting over the roofs of their huts. Her own rubber poncho- nicked from Mitaka- thankfully dispels most of the downpour, but she can still feel the back of her shirt collar rapidly soaking. She speeds up, keeping her gaze trained on her feet and letting muscle memory guide her back towards the captain’s hut.

Lightning flashes, and Rey glances up just far enough to spot the familiar awning ahead of her. She trots the last several yards, coming to a skidding halt once she’s under the rubberized cover. Rain beats down angrily against the awning, but none of it can touch her now; Rey lets out an unconscious sigh of relief, letting her shoulders drop down from her ears and swiping her sopping wet cap off her head. Eyes closed, Rey runs her fingers through her damp hair and inhales a deep breath through her nose.

She hears the camp table creak.

Rey’s eyes both snap open and she turns her head quickly towards the movement, her hand still suspended reaching for her hair. Her pulse leaps.

The captain is seated at the table, a pile of shadows within the greater darkness. He hasn’t bothered to light the campfire, but near the black lump that must be his face, the end of a cigar glows red. As Rey watches, trying to process his presence, she hears a thin crackling and the cigar burns more brightly, faintly lighting his cheeks and his lips like a bloodied red muzzle.

“Enjoying the storm?” comes his voice, dry as dust.

Rey faintly sees his lips twist, sees the smoke threading out from between them. “No sir,” she admits, her heartbeat still racing. She _should_ hand over his dinner, but she makes no move towards him. Wrapped in darkness, Ren could easily be the bloodthirsty beast from the veterans’ stories...or the fearless leader...or anything, really. Rey hovers safely at the edge of the awning, mentally stitching together the murderous lout that she knows with the men’s reverent myth of a hero. He’s _only_ her captain, she reminds herself. He’s _only_ the Butcher, as well.

When lightning flashes a few heartbeats later, Rey sees that the captain has turned to look out at the rain, a half empty bottle of whiskey upright on the table. The crackle of light falls over Ren’s face, filling his ghostly gray eye with white smoke.

_A Confederate gunner cut you_ , Rey thinks to herself, tracing his scars with her gaze. _He tried to kill you, except you killed him first._ Unbidden, a swift admiration streaks through her breast as quickly as the lightning.

“What?”

Ren’s ill-tempered voice snaps Rey out of her thoughts. With a start, she realizes she’s been staring, and that he’s now scowling back at her. 

“I...brought you your dinner,” Rey says simply, trying to cover her lapse. The lightning winks out.

“I already ate,” rasps the captain. He taps on the bottle, and Rey hears the delicate sound of the glass chime faintly in contrast to the hammering rain. 

She mentally sighs, tries again. “Should I make the fire?”

“No,” Ren says flatly. He shifts in the dark, standing slowly: a shadow unfurling. “It’s enough like a battlefield out here already.” 

As if proving his point, a thunderclap sounds through the air like a rolling cannonball. Rey nods even though he can’t see it. Then she hesitates, caught on the knife edge between fear and fascination; the captain sounds almost subdued in the dark, like there might be a slim opening for her questions. For The Question.

“Sir,” she asks faintly, and for the fourth time, “what happened at Fredericksburg?”

A short laugh comes from the darkness, more like a bark. The red cigar end snuffs out abruptly, ground into the table.

“I heard stories…” Rey prompts.

“You heard gossip.”

“Stories from the men,” she goes on, ignoring his tone.

“And you believed them?” Ren snorts. His voice is sharp in the darkness.

“I don’t know, sir,” Rey says simply. “What _should_ I believe?”

Thunder booms directly above the small hut. The two soldiers, two shadows, both look up at the awning that covers their heads. Rey looks back down at him first, and Ren is slower to follow. 

“Men died,” Ren says coolly, after a moment. “Believe that.” 

Rey waits. Then, when he remains silent: “That’s _all_?”

“It’s not much of importance.”

Rey bristles at that.

“Over half your men died,” she accuses, unreasonably stung. “The men say it was the bloodiest battle they’ve fought this whole war.”

“So was Bull Run,” says the captain dispassionately. “Then the seven days battles, and Antietam after that.” The bottle of whiskey scrapes over the table as he picks it up. “They’re all the bloodiest battle until the next one. You’ll see soon enough,” he adds dryly, lifting the whiskey with an audible swish.

Surprise sweeps through Rey. She straightens where she stands, staring at Ren’s dim shadow. “You...want me to march with the company, sir?” Then she swallows, dread quickly seeping in. “Back to Fredericksburg?”

Ren takes his drink; Rey can hear his lips pop off the bottleneck after he’s done. “Want’s a strong word,” he says nastily.

Rey’s brows knit into a glare...just as a new flash of lightning glows over the awning. Ren scowls back at her, lit up in all of his gaunt glory: The Butcher. The lout. The war hero. Her captain.

“If you _want_ to leave me back at camp, I can stay, sir,” Rey grits out, offended.

The captain just smirks at her. “Scared of killing your cousins?”

Rey’s teeth clench. “I don’t have any cousins,” she says.

“Scared of killing your _people_?” Ren continues regardless, his voice dropping to an ugly tone.

A muscle ticks in Rey’s jaw. “I don’t have any people.”

“No you don’t, do you,” the captain says bitingly. His unusual passivity is giving way now, subsumed by his usual temper. He sways slightly in front of her, close enough she can smell him. “Just a bastard Virginian, aren’t you, Johnson?” When Rey remains silent, he snarls, “ _Aren’t_ you?”

“I’m just not much of a killer,” Rey spits out, her voice tight with restraint. _Not like you_ , is implicit.

Ren just _laughs_ at that.

“Are you not, little bird?” he jeers, mocking her. “Did you lie to me about that cut on your throat?”

Rey freezes in place, too unsettled to process more than his sharp reference. She fights the urge to touch the kerchief knotted around her neck. The one that hides her scarred throat from prying eyes...but apparently not from Ren’s slivered gray one.

“I never said that I killed him,” Rey whispers, remembering her words weeks ago. His fingers gripping her chin: _Is he dead?_ She raises her chin again now, says more strongly, “I am _not_ a killer.”

Ren sneers. “Tell that to the gap-toothed moron that you nearly stabbed.”

Rey flushes bright red, like black ink in the dark. “I _didn’t_ stab him,” she chokes out, both for him and herself. “I stopped myself.” 

“This time,” Ren says, silky. His tone implies both a past and a future, which Rey refuses to acknowledge. Refuses to give this man more of herself than he’s already guessed. She stays silent, and Ren leans back, seeming annoyed. 

“Fine,” he says darkly, sounding scornful and just a bit disappointed. “If it helps you sleep.”

“How do _you_ sleep, captain?” Rey bites out. Her words ring in the darkness, harsh beyond what a private should say to a captain. Harsh beyond the limits of his whiskey, of waiting for battle, of darkness or the storm. Rey stills in place, fearing Ren’s fists or the flash of his infamous knife. Instead, the next burst of strange light glows upon his still stranger face, calm but deadly intent.

“That,” he says softly, a velvet-wrapped threat, “is entirely up to you, little bird.”

\---

It’s silent inside the hut except for the rain on the tent-roof. 

Rey fidgets with the edge of her blanket, eyes roaming anywhere but to her left, where the captain sprawls out like a simmering puddle of threat, equally awake. He must be exhausted; he hasn’t slept in two days and he’s been drinking spirits, but the man is too stubborn. She knows that he’s waiting for her to begin, but all of Rey’s songs have dried up in her throat like a summer creek bed. She remembers the veterans’ stories. She remembers the hot splash of warm blood on her hand. She remembers the captain’s low voice: _up to you, little bird._

Her heart feels like two beating wings, trying to lift from her chest.

The captain shifts in his blankets, bringing her back to earth. Rey closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, casting her mind back to the previous night, when she huddled alone in the hut. As if summoned like a ghoul, an old song about murder floats into her mind. Rey licks her lips thinly and begins “In the Pines,” singing low to herself.

_My girl, my girl, don’t lie to me,_

_Tell me where did you sleep last night?_

The captain stills. Rey continues, unheeding.

_In the pines, in the pines,_

_Where the sun don’t ever shine,_

_I would shiver the whole night through._

She goes through, verse by verse: The husband’s severed head. The suspicious questioner. The woman crouched in dark woods, perhaps hiding the body.

_Maybe she slept with the body_ , Rey finds herself wondering as she drifts off.. _Maybe even a corpse was a comfort, if the night was so cold…_

Still wondering, Rey falls asleep. In spite of her worries she dreams quietly, her mind wandering through silent forests of pine.

But Rey isn’t the only one dreaming inside of the hut.

In this other dream, there is a man and he’s floating, deep under the sea. It’s peaceful at first; weightless floating. The drumming of the rain in the real world informs the slow thrum of the surrounding sea. Then his gaze settles out in the distance, where the ocean starts fading to black. He watches it calmly, then...less calmly. Some unease grows in his belly, and slowly...slowly...he’s aware that something is coming. Out in the haze, so large that it’s hard to distinguish, something _comes._

It announces itself with a low, distant thunder and dull flash of red light. Its shape is slow like a whale, like a shark rising eerie up from the sea’s depths. Its vastness becomes more distinct as it starts to move towards him, and now the man’s heart beats faster. The beast rumbles again, voicing the real world’s thunder, and the water goes cold. The man looks up above him for the first time and sees no sign of the surface. He looks out again and the shape is approaching, its back undulating like a great, dark eel swimming.

The man kicks, still not breathing, and tries to swim up.

He’s slow, slow, achingly slow. The beast howls again, some strange roaring call like a monstrous whale. The man is tiny, pursuing the faint rays of light he now can make out far above him. His legs ache and his airless lungs burn, but the darkness keeps gaining. It churns the water so close to him now, more vast than ten ships. With a terrible beat of its monstrous fins, he _feels_ the beast barrel towards him; the man dares to look back.

The beast’s eyes snap wide open.

They are gashes of fire, like five thousand muskets all blazing at once. Fierce and consuming, they show the thing’s skin. 

It is _writhing_.

The man floats for a moment, forgetting to kick. 

The beast is a great, thrashing mass of dead men. Their white hands and faces reach out in an abysmal frenzy from the fire-lit bulk of the beast, making its “flesh” strangely squirm and collapse. Their mouths howl as the corpses contort and reach out towards their prey, grinning the same ghastly leers that they wore when they first fell in battle. They reach towards the man- gray, blue, _red_ \- the beast opening a monstrous mouth- but he _kicks_ and-

Kylo breaks the surface. His whole body is shaking, and he looks about wildly. He’s now floating chest deep in the water near some half-sunken island. A massive pine tree grows up from the rock towards the sky far above. His aide is standing beside it.

It’s somehow familiar.

“Johnson,” he says, or he tries to say. The word doesn’t carry from his lips. Johnson doesn’t turn.

The beast has not left him; the sea starts glowing red. Around him, the smooth black water is broken by fingertips rising like terrible white blades of grass. 

“Johnson,” Kylo calls again, his eyes wide. He tries to remember his aide’s given name from the rosters.

A forest of dead hands surrounds him, starts reaching for him. He feels the vise grip of dead arms around his legs, dragging down. In a bright surge of panic, the name comes to him.

“ _Rey_ ,” Kylo screams, as the first bloated face bobs up like a bubble just under the surface.

In the distance, his aide turns, but he can’t see his face. The corpses rush in with a howl and punch _through_ him, like teeth piercing his sides. His eyes roll back in his head and he falls…

Both the captain and Rey wake up at the same time; him with a great choking cry, and her shooting bolt upright with the hearing of it.

Like a flash, Ren has his knife out of its sheath and he’s lunging to strike down at Rey, his teeth bared in a snarl. Rey has no time to think; as Ren whips towards her, she rolls like a cat to slam her back flat against the wall of the hut, sucking her guts in as far as she can. She watches, wide-eyed, as his knife slams down through the floorboards inches from her ribs.

It’s only been a few seconds.

The jolt of impact seems to still the captain. He stays where he is, twisted onto his right side, staring down at his blade as he pants heavily. Rey doesn’t dare breathe. She looks down at his face, where the captain’s mismatched eyes both stare sightlessly. It’s silent again in the hut, except for his gasps and the rain.

Thunder rumbles faintly, finally breaking the spell. It sounds far away now, the storm finally abating. Ren wordlessly looks up at Rey and she takes a deep breath.

_Like stone_ , Quruque said. _You don’t break._

Rey _won’t_ break.

She refuses to break.

After a long moment, the captain looks back down again at his knife and wearily, with a great tug, frees it from the floorboards. He sits up and scoots backwards somewhat, closer to his usual side. Rey remains still, just watching him warily. The captain, for his part, scrubs a hand down his face and leaves it there, hiding his features.

“Lie down,” he says finally, muffled beneath his hand. “I’ll not harm you.”

Rey stays where she is.

Prompted by the silence, Ren removes his hand from his face and looks over at her. His jaw tightens slightly at her expression; he turns to stretch up towards his trunk, unlatches it with a deft flip of his fingers, then opens the lid. Wordlessly, he unhooks the knife sheath from his belt and then dumps both the knife and the sheath into the trunk, shutting the lid with a brusque slam once it’s done. Then he flops onto his back sullenly, not looking at Rey. His body is tense, clearly waiting.

Slowly, Rey unfurls from her rigid position. She traces her fingertips over the gouge in the floor that the knife left, then steels herself. _I am stone_ , she tells herself silently. _I am stone,_ she repeats, lying down _._ There’s a moment of silence, then Rey exhales shakily, relaxing in place. The captain glances over at her. Rey knows not to expect an apology, but she reads relief in him as clearly as if he had spoken; it shocks her, somewhat, how clearly she sees it. Then the man’s face is shuttered again as he looks up.

“Are you going to ask me again how I sleep,” he says, and his voice is both tired and bitter. When Rey doesn’t answer, Ren sharply gathers his blankets and turns away onto his side, abandoning her for the night. 

And yet...Rey looks at the broad curl of Ren’s back, the tenseness of his shoulders. Her heart still beats fast, but she finds herself thinking of Miller, of Carter, of Hendricks and their stories. The distant, pained look on their faces at times, when they spoke about battle. Still staring at Ren’s back, Rey lifts her hand slowly. Her gut clenches with fear at the mere thought of contact, so she shifts her gaze up to his trailing black hair. 

_Hair is a dead thing_ , Rey thinks to herself. _It can’t feel. It can’t hurt you._

She takes a deep breath. With her next one, she starts to hum softly, the tune of an old lullabye half remembered. Rey moves her hand forward. She’s closer than normal to the captain; her arm isn’t fully extended when her fingertips brush the thin ends of his hair. Rey shuts her eyes tightly and keeps humming the song...and the world doesn’t end. Her hand lays on his hair.

Rey exhales at the next break in the music, trying not to think, just to feel. She moves her fingertips slowly, stroking the strands until they feel like warm silk. The captain lies perfectly still on his side...and the world doesn’t end. He doesn’t kill her.

  
Rey dares to comb his hair lightly, her fingertips parting the strands like black water. It’s greasy and tangled but touchable, _safe,_ and she teases the knots out as gently as she can. She hums her soft tune...and the world doesn’t end. They both fall asleep to her song and the pattering sound of the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too fast, too furious??? In this fic, even hair stroking might be. Still, I hope that you enjoyed this tiny taste of things to come! I always wanted their first contact to happen this way, and I was super excited to drop in the first "little bird" as well (shout out to Sansa for being the OG little bird)! I feel like a lot was going on in this chapter and I hope y'all didn't find it disorienting. I decided a while ago that I wanted to talk about Fredericksburg in a layered way almost like a movie montage, and it took some time and thought to pull off. I also thought that learning about the battle would be a good way for Rey to build some empathy for Kylo. He's still an asshole (who almost stabbed her!) but she has enough trauma of her own to at least recognize trauma.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who's stuck around for the ride! I know it can be really frustrating when you like a fic and it doesn't update for a while...it's frustrating for me as an author as well. I'm still at my hell-job for another month, but once I'm less overworked I'm daring to dream of a world where I post regularly again. Anyway, thank you all SO much for your support and your comments and kudos, it truly cheers me up in these VERY bleh times. I typically answer old comments once I've posted a new chapter, but I may switch to replying as they come in just because I don't want y'all to think they're forgotten. I promise they're not <3
> 
> Stay safe and sane out there until the next time x
> 
> Historical References
> 
> -I've condensed the story of Fredericksburg, but the essentials are true- or as true as a few hours of research will make it. The Union army got screwed over by their [pontoon bridges](https://www.gallon.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/03/A90.1.jpg) showing up late. A ridiculous number of Union soldiers died/were wounded marching on Marye's Heights (the stone wall with artillery and gunmen protecting it), and elsewhere down the line 4k Union soldiers briefly broke through the Confederate line for some very bloody fighting at Prospect Hill- that area was indeed called the Slaughter Pen. You can read more about the whole battle [here](https://www.battlefields.org/learn/articles/horror-and-heroism-slaughter-pen-farm) and [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Fredericksburg). 
> 
> -Rey's poncho from Last Jedi is civil war canon! Use of rubber was pretty widespread in the army, especially in blankets and for ponchos. [this](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/1485/9888/products/Civil-War-Poncho_1024x1024.jpg?v=1523446668) is what they mostly looked like.
> 
> -"In the Pines" was famously covered by Nirvana (one of my fave songs ftw) but it's actually a very old folk song that first entered our records via Lead Belly. Check out both versions!


	8. The Soap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Horny Day (bisexual edition)

They would call it bad luck in the history books: a dry January that ended in rain. Rain that poured down for days. Rain that transformed the half-frozen earth into thick, cloying mud. The veterans muttered and the top brass complained, but Burnside was committed to launching his attack in spite of the torrential weather. He told the Army of the Potomac to march, and so they did, marching on towards Fredericksburg. 

Unsurprisingly, their grand attack failed.

The mud stole the soldiers’ boots off of their feet. It crippled the wagons and soaked their supplies, slowing Burnside’s attack to an onerous crawl. By the time the weary, irritated, and waterlogged troops arrived at their set crossing point on the river, Lee’s army was already waiting for them. Confederates lined the opposite bank of the rain-swollen river like neat silver birches, entrenched and armed to the teeth for anyone foolish enough to cross into their waiting arms.

Burnside could be foolish, but he was never a fool. He turned the Army of the Potomac right back around to their camps, like a snake curling back up to sleep. Only, the snake didn’t sleep. The soldiers should have been grateful, perhaps, to be saved from a repeat of December’s slaughter, but they were more likely to say-

\---

“ _Fuck_ the general.”

Rey flinches as a half-empty bottle goes flying, smashing to pieces against a random hut wall. The captain doesn’t look back at his handiwork, only keeps striding ahead like a man-shaped storm cloud. His words come out half-slurred both from liquor and rage:

“ _Fuck_ the general, _fuck_ Lee, and _fuck_ this _fucking mud.”_

Ren’s sergeants, who flank him, mutter in agreement. Like both the captain and Rey, they’ve been splattered with thick red-brown muck from their boots nearly up to their waists. They’ve all spent the better part of three sleepless days immersed in the stuff, whether marching, or prising loose wagons, or, worst of all, _standing_ in place while the army ahead of them snarled like a knot. Rey has never been so exhausted in all her young life, and their hardships had all been for naught _._ Company K hadn’t even been able to march close enough to the river to see the Confederate soldiers; from their perspective, they’d marched through wet hell for a day and a half only to turn back around in disgrace. They’d arrived back at camp a few hours ago, but the army still swarms like a kicked hornet’s nest. There’s a palpable stench in Rey’s nostrils, the air heavy with unspent adrenaline from tens of thousands of soldiers. From _men_. The ugliness of their frustration threatens to snap into violence, charging the air in a way Rey remembers too well; anxiety shallows her breath as she trails a safe distance behind Ren and his sergeants.

“Hey, you!” a man shouts from behind them. Rey glances back over her shoulder and sees a red-cheeked lieutenant hustling after them, both his hands clenched into fists. She takes a quick breath and speeds up, her own hands tightening on the crate that she’s carrying; it’s stuffed full of bottles like the one Ren just smashed. This had been Burnside’s idea of a peace offering for his furious army: wagons loaded with copious booze for the soldiers. It was meant as a balm, but functioning more as a fan on the flames as the long night wore on.

“Hey, _you!_ ” the drunken young man shouts again. He catches up to Rey in a few long strides and grabs her tightly by the shoulder. Whiskey fumes taint his breath as he leans in towards her face. “I saw you throwing that bottle,” he slurs angrily. “That was _my_ hut.” 

Rey stiffens and yanks herself out of his grip, causing her crateful of bottles to clank. Ahead of her, Ren and his sergeants all stop. Ren turns on his heel and takes in the scene, nearly as redfaced as the lieutenant. His mismatched eyes narrow, then fix on the man. Impossibly, his face darkens further as he purposefully strides towards the stranger.

“You’re th’ captain?” the lieutenant blusters, squinting at Ren’s epaulets. “You ought t-”

Ren’s fist drops the man to the ground with an audible crack.

Rey blinks. The captain viciously kicks the lieutenant’s unguarded gut, then his ribs, then just any old spot he can reach with his mud-crusted boots. Days of ill-restrained wrath are unleashed on the lieutenant’s flesh as Rey watches, too much in a fog to do more than just stare. A small ugly voice whispers _good_ in her mind. Around them, unnoticed, privates from the lieutenant’s company start to stand up from their fires, muttering in outrage. Ren’s sergeants fan out. The air starts to shift. 

“What’s your regiment?” Ren growls, his boot poised for another swift kick. The bloodied lieutenant curls into himself with a moan.

“Fifth New York,” he mumbles, slurring into the mud.

“ _Fuck_ the fifth New York,” Ren bellows, snapping his eyes up to glare at the huts that surround them. Beyond their small circle, the lieutenant’s comrades exclaim in anger and start to stride towards them. Rey’s eyes open wide; she snaps out of her fugue. She drops her crate to the ground with a crash, getting ready to run. Ren, on the other hand, just bares his teeth. 

“Go back to camp,” he tells Rey with dark glee. “Tell the men there’s a brawl.”

Rey nods and then bolts, slipping just past the arc of the incoming soldiers. Behind her, she hears a hoarse roar and a dim cry of pain...then nothing but the thud of her boots and her own panicked breath as she runs.

\---

Late that night, Rey sprawls out in the hut, too uneasy to sleep. It’s _her_ hut tonight because the captain has not yet returned from his violent delights. He’s not alone in that either; half of Company K had stumbled off, whooping, once Rey dutifully told them about the fight Ren was starting. Rey can still hear faint shouts in the distance, though mercifully none of the hubbub comes near as the long night wears on.

Rey flips from her back to her side yet again, utterly exhausted yet unable to sleep. She doesn’t _care_ if the captain gets himself killed. She really doesn’t. It was strange and frightening and unspeakably brutal for him to start brawling with his fellow soldiers. He went _looking_ for violence, so what if it found him? He might get demoted for inciting fights. He might get beaten beyond recognition. He might be shot or stabbed and then dumped in the river, and then Rey could sing to herself for a change... 

Rey catches herself humming a funeral hymn and exhales in annoyance, yanking her blankets up under her chin. She shuts her eyes tightly and stubbornly squashes all thoughts of the captain. In his absence, her weariness finally starts to take hold, dragging her down towards a restless sleep.

Rey is nearly unconscious when the makeshift hut door scrapes roughly to the side. She sits up with a gasp, both fists clenched for a fight. A moment later, the captain’s dark head pushes into the hut and he stumbles down from the slight ledge to the hay-covered floor. Ren groans low in his throat but otherwise doesn’t move where he sprawls. Rey relaxes a fraction...but _only_ a fraction. 

“Captain?” she asks cautiously, drawing her legs up to her chest so her feet won’t touch him. He just grunts.

“Are you alright, sir?” Rey tries again.

Ren loudly plants both his palms on the floor and pushes himself off the ground, holding himself in a plank before dropping his knees heavily and beginning to crawl. He moves towards the fire and rolls onto his back in his usual spot, albeit more stiffly than usual. “Never better,” he rasps at the ceiling, covering his eyes with one arm.

Now that she knows he’s not dead, Rey’s disgust at the whole situation comes roaring back. She purses her lips skeptically and tries to assess his damage herself. The captain’s forearm hides most of his face, but bright blood runs in crusts from Ren’s nose down his chin, and there’s more of the same splattered over his shirt. His gloves are both gone, and she can already see where she’ll have to stitch ripped fabric shut in the morning. Overall, though, Ren seems eerily well for a man who had just launched a brawl. Notably, the dark anger that wreathed him like smoke on their march seems to have dissipated, blown away by a violent wind. 

Rey internally sighs. Ever practical, she turns and unhooks her canteen where it hangs from a nail on the wall.

“Water, sir?”

The captain merely grunts and extends the arm that isn’t over his face. He splays his fingers open expectantly, and Rey sees that his knuckles are darkened and split. “Who won, sir?” she asks as she hands him the flask.

The captain sniffs deeply to clear the blood out of his nostrils, then uncovers his face. He shoots Rey an unimpressed look, revealing a bruise on his good cheek. “We did, probably,” he says gruffly before guzzling the rest of her water. When he’s finished, he smacks his lips loudly and tosses the empty canteen on the floor; Rey’s eye only twitches slightly in annoyance. “Or none of us did,” Ren adds in a lower, bitter tone.

“Imagine if they’d been Confederates,” Rey snipes. She winces as soon as the insolent words leave her mouth, hoping that he won’t rise to the bait.

But the captain just grunts yet again, closing his eyes tiredly. He brings the heels of both palms to his face and, exhaling deeply, scrubs them up to his forehead. Ren’s fingertips rest in his hair for a moment, and Rey finds herself watching them closely. Her own fingers curl, idly brushing the wool of her blanket. Without thinking, her fingertips stroke the same pattern as his, as though both sets were ghosting over his hair. Then the captain blinks both his eyes open and Rey startles. She busies herself with her blankets, choosing to ignore the hard heat of Ren’s glare.

“Sing to me,” the captain says roughly.

Rey immediately starts a light tune that Carter had taught her on the march. She curls up on her side, still singing, and wedges both her hands tightly between her knees. Her fingers feel overly hot where she traps them, and her cheeks feel flushed as well with the captain’s gaze on her. She tries her best not to think back to _that_ night, or the night after it: the last time they’d both slept in this hut, when she’d stroked his black hair like a child’s. 

But he certainly _isn’t_ a child, and neither is she. Ren is a stranger, a soldier, with blood crusting his face and more blood staining his hands. He most likely- _thankfully-_ hadn’t felt her touch him those nights, and he won’t get a chance to sense her again. With that conviction, Rey dares to return his mismatched stare. The captain frowns down at her, then starts to roll onto his side so his back faces her. He pauses before turning entirely, meeting her gaze with a cagy expression. 

“I want you,” he growls, “to _sing_ to me.”

He says it deliberately, as though making a correction. Rey- who is already singing- opens her mouth to clarify, but he’s already turned and flopped onto the floor. Rey inhales slowly instead, her palms feeling too hot in the ensuing silence. She stares at the expanse of Ren’s back and wonders: _had_ he felt her hand? He’d been perfectly still both those nights, and yet...she’s never known him to be a side sleeper. She hates that she knows that about him, but hates her own conflict more. Brushing Ren’s hair had been a moment of weakness- or possibly strength. It had helped him, helped _her_ , sleep better when they needed it before a battle. But now that the battle is over...

Rey’s inner debate is interrupted when the captain shifts backwards ever so slightly; closer to her. It’s subtle but deliberate, just like his words _._ It successfully makes Rey’s mind go entirely blank. 

In that blankness, Rey inhales through her nose and lifts her traitorous hand out from under the blanket. As cautiously as the first time she’d done it, Rey reaches to touch Ren’s long, trailing hair. She slides her fingertips softly at first, then more confidently over the strands, resuming Carter’s song. She watches him like a hawk from behind, ready to snatch her hand back at the first sign of tension. But instead, the opposite happens. With her gaze trained on his shoulders, Rey notices as they subtly relax. She sees the arc of his dirtied neck soften, and she certainly hears the slight sigh that passes from his lips. Rey screws her eyes shut against that small sound, fighting to keep her common sense from engaging, from screaming that _this is an awful idea_. _This is a monster beneath your hand_. But as her bloodthirsty captain relaxes, so does Rey. At long last, sleep finally swallows both captain and aide.

\---

Three days later, Rey rolls up the flaps of the hut’s tent-roof several inches. Every movement she makes releases fresh flakes of dried mud from the creases of her clothing, and more mud clings under her nails. Ignoring the dirt, Rey plucks a wire tie from between her teeth and starts securing the rolled tent in place. She can smell the stale air from the hut seeping out, heavy with sweat and the rotting plant smell of old mud.

“What are you doing?” the captain asks sharply from his camp table. Rey glances quickly behind her; Ren is frowning at her over his morning coffee.

“Just letting in air, sir,” Rey says as lightly as she can. The words come out somewhat mumbled through the remaining wire ties.

Ren’s frown deepens. “Why?”

Rey hesitates, considering how to be delicate. “All the men do it,” she settles on, lamely. And truly, most soldiers are crammed 8-10 to a hut. She’s heard them complain over dinner about the dank smell of their farts and their flesh caged together in such a small space. In contrast, Rey does her best to keep this hut clean; she replaces the pine boughs and hay regularly, and rolls up the tent sides for air during the day. But both she and the captain are...pungent. Her, because she cannot bathe and relies on the grime to obscure her smooth cheeks. Him, because he seems not to give two shits if he washes this year or the next. With the addition of mud, the stench of them both is sometimes too much to bear.

_That’s_ what Rey doesn’t say when she answers the captain. Perhaps he suspects her real meaning, however, because Rey only hears silence behind her. Then a long, searching sniff. 

“Johnson,” the captain finally growls. Rey spits out the remaining ties into her hand, braces herself for the worst, and turns to face him.

“Yes, sir?”

Ren scowls moodily up at the sky. His bruises from the brawl are beginning to fade, but the captain’s temper has been especially unstable ever since the march, swinging from anger to icy indifference at the drop of a hat. In spite of their unspoken nocturnal arrangement, Rey half expects him to bite her head off. Instead, rather than look at her, he growls at the clouds: “Bring me a bucket of water from the river.”

“Yes, sir,” Rey says carefully, hiding her surprise.

Ren tosses back what’s left of his coffee and lowers the cup with a slam. “And get me some of that soap the laundresses use,” he adds with a dark look at Rey. “ _Scavenger_.”

The lash of that last word makes Rey’s spine straighten. The captain glares at her as though daring her to reply. Instead, Rey nods quickly and leaves the campsite without another word.

\---

It’s easy enough to secure an old bucket and fill it with water, but Rey is more nervous about getting the soap. She hovers at the edge of the clearing that’s used for laundering needs, watching _real_ women in blouses and skirts chatter aimlessly to one another. They work while they talk, scrubbing soiled clothes and cloths in large tubs of warmed water, scouring the fabric over washboards. Most soldiers boil their soiled clothes in cookpots- which does neither the clothes nor the subsequent stew many favors- so Rey knows that the women are most likely laundering officers’ gear. 

Kylo Ren is an officer. Rey can do this.

Yet, Rey feels trapped at a distance. She stares at the laundry ladies, at their casual smiling and laughing, and feels more acutely than ever that she is _not_ one of them. She could never do _that._ She could never _be_ that. She is what she made herself long months ago: a cockless young man. A nothing, a ghost.

“Looking for someone?” a voice coos nearby.

Rey straightens, coming off of the tent pole that she’d been leaning against. A quick glance reveals the red-haired laundress she keeps seeing around, the one who smiled far too brightly and came far too close. She’s smiling again now, a bundle of clothes tucked up under her...noticeable bosom. Rey swallows and raises her eyes before they can trace the full curves of that chest. The laundry lady only sways closer, still smiling.

“Cat got your tongue?” she prompts again.

Ah, yes. Was Rey looking for someone.

“Some _thing_ ,” Rey says gruffly, clearing her throat. As always with strangers, she keeps her voice husky and low. “I’m hoping to borrow some soap.”

The woman’s smile broadens; with one hand still bracing her laundry, she sneaks her other hand into the pocket of her apron. A moment later, she produces a chunk of gray soap.

“Like this?” she asks innocently.

Rey swallows. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Hmmm.” The laundress considers Rey slowly; her sharp eyes are brown with laugh lines at the corners. Her hair falls in wisps from her bun and it’s...quite pretty, really. She’s _pretty._ “I’ll lend it to you for one thing.”

Rey internally winces but just says, “Yes, ma’am?”

The woman holds out the soap in her palm, watching Rey. “What’s your name?” she asks sweetly.

Rey hesitates, then says, “Johnson.”

“No, no,” laughs the redhead. She takes a step closer. “Your _real_ name. Given name.”

“Oh, that.” Rey shifts awkwardly, eyeing the soap and weighing its worth. “It’s Rey, ma’am.”

“Rey Johnson,” says the laundress, as though tasting each word. “Funny name.”

“What’s your name?” Rey asks hastily, hoping to divert the woman. 

“I’m Grace,” says the laundress with a broad smile. “And _that_ was you asking a question, so I get another request.”

Rey huffs, her heart beating too loud in her chest. _Step back_ , she wants to beg Grace as the woman approaches. _Stop looking so closely, forget about me._ But the redhead comes to a stop merely an armslength away, her brown eyes exploring Rey and her secrets. A large part of Rey wants to make an excuse to run off and forget the damn soap. But a small, fierce part of Rey- a spark that’s been improperly stifled- is leaning towards Grace with a hunger. Craving the attention. Craving being seen in this miniscule way.

“What do you need,” rasps Rey in defeat.

Grace’s eyebrows go up in twin arcs. “I could think of a few things, once you’ve cleaned up,” she says slyly. Then, seeing Rey squirm, she relents. “But for now I think I’d take a kiss.” And she turns one plump, sun-speckled cheek towards Rey.

Rey’s guts turn to ice.

She stares at Grace’s skin, imagining the feel of it. Soft, probably. Maybe a faint smell of laundry, or a halo of warmth rising up from the flesh. Rey can almost grasp the sensation of it, but cannot, _will_ not, imagine that sensation against her own lips. The mere hint of that thought, of that _touch_ , makes her scar throb with pain and her vision go dark at the edges.

_Afterwards, you could give me a kiss_.

Rey bites her nails into her palms. Her pupils dilate with the pain, banishing both the old voice and the traces of darkness. She’s standing under the sun next to Grace, a pretty laundress. A bold woman who just wants to flirt with a shy looking soldier. Grace’s face is averted, eyes closed while she waits for her kiss.

Rey takes a deep breath. She drops her eyes down to Grace’s outstretched hand. Rey reaches forward and plucks the soap off of her palm, causing Grace to open her eyes in surprise. Her pink lips part to exclaim...and then stop, because Rey is now stooping down low. With a swift motion, barely touching her palm, Rey flips Grace’s hand and pecks a quick kiss on her knuckles.

Bone is familiar to Rey. Bone isn’t warm, isn’t plush. It’s the stuff that her teeth scraped against when she ate those raw squirrels and rabbits in the forest; it’s _safe._ Her kiss on Grace’s knuckles makes her mouth taste like blood, instead of like fire. Rey straightens quickly before any heat can seep onto her lips.

“Your kiss,” she says hoarsely. And Grace...she just blushes.

“What a nice southern boy,” she says shyly to Rey. Then she lifts her chin, quickly reclaiming her poise. “When you’re done with that soap, maybe bring it back here.” Her eyes flash. “I might have other places need kissing.”

“Yes ma’am,” Rey says rotely. Then, bucket in one hand, hard-won soap in the other, and strange butterflies in her stomach, she flees.

\---

“Took you long enough,” snaps the captain when Rey walks back under the awning. He’s sprawled in a rickety chair Rey had scrounged from some officer’s wood pile; they were going to burn it, but Rey fixed it back to half-decent in less than a day. 

“Sorry sir,” Rey says quickly. Her thoughts and emotions are strangely upset; they’re swirling more strongly than the time she had nearly stabbed Gap-Tooth. With effort, Rey (mostly) wipes the laundress from her mind. “I had to make a deal for the soap,” she adds simply.

Ren grunts. He watches as Rey sets the bucket down on the camp table before him, as well as the gray chunk of soap. As soon as it’s left her hand, he snatches the soap up and gives it a distrusting sniff.

“Stinks like herbs,” he says with a grimace. He tosses the chunk on the table, then rises from his seat and starts unbuttoning his coat.

“Smells better than just ash and fat,” Rey says reasonably, watching Ren toss his jacket to the re-frozen ground. Her brow creases as the captain continues, starting to undo his shirt. Then her eyes widen with realization and she whips her head hastily off to the side.

“Do you want me to go, sir?” she asks, staring holes through the forest. 

“No,” he says carelessly. There’s a rustle of fabric; Rey peripherally sees his shirt land on top of his jacket. She swallows. 

There’s a splash and Ren hisses; the water is undoubtedly cold, and the sharp winter air makes it colder. “I really can-,” Rey starts to say, her voice tight with embarrassment. 

“Don’t be a miss,” Ren snaps back.

Fear and anger both flare in Rey’s chest. She whips her head around to glare daggers at Ren, her mouth open to spit a retort, but...it just stays open. Hangs, maybe. 

Rey stares at her captain.

Almost of their own volition, her eyes travel downwards to assess the captain’s broad chest and the thick, corded strength of his arms as he washes. The left side of his chest has been gouged by the same knife that ruined his face; ugly, dark stitch marks scrawl a trail from his neck nearly down to his nipple. Rey forces her mouth to shut tight as Ren leans over the bucket and splashes his face and his neck. He scrubs his hands roughly through his ragged beard, his eyes mercifully shut, and each motion sets off rippling muscles along his stomach. On his right side, a dark purple scar like a starburst mottles his waist, and countless small knicks stand out pink on his skin. Rey stands and watches, not even conscious of doing so, as he dunks his head down into the water again. He comes up sputtering slightly, swiping the excess rivulets over his copious pecs and into his armpits. 

For once, his face is not the most absorbing thing about him.

“Are you next?” Ren asks dryly, glancing at Rey through his hair. She startles; she’s still standing across the camp table from him. Rey takes several steps backwards until she’s a more appropriate distance away, trying to rein in a slew of emotions. Envy, for one, at his uncomplicated male body. Wary appreciation for the brute strength that guides his every movement. Faint horror at hints of old battles strewn across his flesh. And heat- inappropriate, unwanted heat- at the sight of him stripped bare before her. 

Rey sits down heavily on a crate and tries not to stare as Ren starts soaping up, but inevitably does. That’s how she’s watching when the captain casually shoves his pants down from his hips, exposing dark hair and the top of his-

_Oh._

Rey’s neck cracks from twisting away so sharply. She can feel her cheeks burning and she blinks rapidly, trying to dispel the image. 

Rey _has_ seen a naked man before now. On the march down from D.C. with the other recruits, the young soldiers would strip down to bathe in the rain or in rivers. They had soft, compact jumbles of flesh she considered their privates, bouncing near-comically with every step. Ren’s penis doesn’t seem soft _or_ small, though, and Rey had seen only-

She shakes her head slightly, biting the side of her tongue to center herself. It won’t do to speculate about the captain. It won’t do at all. Rey forcefully shoves her own fascination beneath an even thicker layer of self-disgust. Her breathing recovers as the splashing continues, and Rey resolves to simply wait him out...but that’s not to be.

“Johnson,” Ren calls, and Rey is horrified to hear his footsteps coming towards her. She dares to glance over and sees him approaching, his trousers still unbuttoned. They hang low, the waistband soaked and his dark pubic curls now shining with moisture. His head is bent down on his neck, both his hands in the wet hair that hangs over his face. He takes a knee at her side, as though Rey is a king who will knight him.

“There’s an itch,” Ren complains, tilting his head to one side. One hand gives a demonstrative scratch near the base of his neck. “Is it lice?”

Rey blinks, taking a moment to process his words. The captain wants her to check his head for lice. He wants her to touch his hair while he’s this close, half-naked, in daylight, when anyone could-

Rey fights panic, staring down at Ren’s head. He waits on his knee and she struggles to keep her breath even as she lifts her hands over him, hovering. _It’s just hair_ , she tells herself bravely. _It’s only his scalp, just some water-chilled skin._ Compared to kissing Grace, this is practically nothing _._ In fact, she’s nearly touched the captain’s skin several times these past nights, when she’d started to doze and her fingers roved further than she intended.

_It’s only a little thing_ , Rey tells herself. _It’s_ only _the captain._

Rey mechanically leans over Ren, heedless of the water that drips from his hair onto her boots. She places her hands gingerly on the dome of his skull, tilting it slightly forward so that she can see better. He lets her. Releasing a deeply held breath, Rey strokes away some of his hair to look at his scalp where he had been itching. She sees that it’s reddened, but free from crawling pests. Methodically, Rey parts his hair an inch further to either side, but sees nothing.

“It’s not lice,” Rey declares, her hands still on his head. To her horror, her fingernails stroke the bared spot she'd just searched, a reassuring gesture.

“Mm.”

The captain grunts and comes to his feet, forcing her hands to fall to her sides. He looms over her, dripping. Rey’s eyes widen and quickly avert from his crotch, which is almost exactly eye level with her; he notices.

“What, were you raised in a church?” Ren asks scornfully, making no move to adjust his pants.

“A farm,” Rey says faintly, still averting her eyes.

Ren snorts. “A farmer,” he says with disgust. He turns away, but, desperate for some distraction, Rey blurts, “What did you do, before the war?”

His answer is flat and utterly disinterested: “Guess.”

Rey sighs dispiritedly. She keeps looking out into the distance, considering. Giving her heartbeat a chance to slow down.

“Cooper,” she guesses, thinking of his arms.

A splash. “No.”

“Dock worker,” she says, thinking of his broad chest.

Ren audibly shakes his wet hair like a dog. “No.”

Rey turns her head to look at him; he stands with his back facing her. “Banke-” she starts to say, and then stops. Because most likely a banker would not have raised scars from whip lashes all along his shoulders and back, and even so low that they disappear beneath his already-low trousers. She stares at them, losing the train of her thought.

“A what?” Ren looks over his scarred shoulder, unimpressed.

“Banker,” Rey whispers.

“No,” Ren says shortly. He picks up his shirt, and the silver scars shift with his muscles. His posture stiffens, a dismissal. “Go find something to do,” he says brusquely, shoving his arm through a sleeve. He doesn’t look at Rey. “I don’t want to see you again until dinner.”

Rey watches him warily, this strange patchwork man. Questions float through her mind and over her tongue, but all that she says is, “Yes, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies! First of all, please forgive me for jerking your chains re: Fredericksburg. A few months ago I read about the failed Mud March (that's what it's historically called) and I was like "huh, that would be fun to include so that Rey can learn more about Fredericksburg leading up to it!" Three months later, it FINALLY happened! Also, I hope you enjoyed the bisexual edition of Rey dealing with Warm Feelings. I've tagged this fic as bisexual Rey and Ben and that IS going to play out, though if Rey/OC squicks you out, I'll spoil it for you *enough* to say that you shouldn't worry much.
> 
> As for Rey/Kylo, I'm SO excited to start bringing the Reylo flavor! I'm trying not to go weirdly fast, but I'm so excited for the next few chapters and what I get to write! I'm also really proud of both of their backstories, and I love getting to drop hints as we go. Any guesses about Kylo's pre-war occupation? I will say that flogging was common as a punishment in the mid 1800s across society; for example, the Union and Confederate armies only stopped flogging their troops in 1861.
> 
> Thank you as always SO much for your comments, kudos, and thoughts on this work, it gives me so much joy in a pretty tumultuous time to get to share this story with you. Take care, and see you next chapter! <3
> 
> REFERENCES
> 
> -The [Mud March](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mud_March_\(American_Civil_War\)) really happened, and Burnside really did ply his army with booze afterwards. Brawls broke out; [this article](https://www.history.com/this-day-in-history/mud-march-begins) references one whole regiment fighting another, and for context a regiment is ~1000 men, so imagine two large high schools emptying out onto a field to beat the tar out of each other.
> 
> -I pulled some references from the memoir Hardtack & Coffee; notably, the part about soldiers boiling their clothes in cookpots is true. It's also true that winter huts were usually a little larger than Rey and Kylo's, and plenty of stinky men were crammed into each one. Airing out the huts by raising the roofs was common. Also (and before you say I'm just making gross stuff up!), soldiers were typically crawling with lice and usually one man would have a good friend go into the woods with him to pick them off. How *romantic*
> 
> -Soap wasn't mass produced yet in the time of the civil war, but you could make soap out of animal fat and ashes. Herbs or flowers were often mixed in to give it a more pleasant smell...not that Kylo appreciates it.
> 
> -This is such a weirdly specific kink, but GUYS. COOPERS. A cooper is someone who crafts barrels. When I visited the Guinness factory in Dublin two years ago, I saw [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1bNp3E-SuQw) and fell in love with coopers and their gorgeous strong arms. I wish the quality on this video was better so you can see the sheer *definition* of the forearm muscles.


	9. The Mail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of several somethings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Worldbuilding: The Chapter! 
> 
> CW: mention of pregnancy, birth of a child. Tags have been updated.

Rey crouches in a sunken pocket of earth between two tree roots, listening intently for the sound of boots. She hears birds and the occasional scuttle of rodents. She hears a light wind rustling leafless tree branches. She hears the dim sound of men calling out back in camp. Immediately around her, however, she hears nothing.

Rey takes a deep breath and looks over at the bucket of water she’s hauled out here with her; it perches precariously on top of a knoll by her feet. Closer at hand is the gray chunk of soap that the captain had used to wash himself yesterday morning. He’d thrown it carelessly up towards his trunk when he’d crawled into the hut to sleep late last night.

“Should I return the soap, sir?” Rey had asked, watching the soap bounce perilously close to the fire.

“No,” he’d said shortly. He’d gathered his blankets around him. “You might still find it useful.”

Rey’s gaze had snapped up from the soap onto him; her eyes narrowed. “Me, sir?” she’d asked slowly.

The captain looked back at her, expression flat. Then he’d sniffed, _ loudly,  _ while holding eye contact. 

The  _ bastard. _

It still makes her blood boil to think of it now...the sheer _nerve_ of the man to insinuate Rey could use a good scrub when only last morning he’d stunk of his usual sweat, mud, and funk. She has no earthly reason to clean up for his sake. She doesn’t _intend_ to clean up for his sake. And yet, Rey is here now, crouched like a scared rabbit all to take a damn bath.

Rey scowls down at the ground. The anger she feels at the captain and her own foolish self makes her next movements swift. She unbuckles her belt and shoves down both her trousers and the thin cotton breeches that serve as her innermost layer. The fabrics bunch awkwardly around her knees as she settles back onto her haunches. She leans even further; the tree bark grates roughly against her bare bottom, but if a perimeter guard should swing by on patrol, Rey will hopefully look like a male soldier squatting to shit...at least from a distance. 

Rey glances around once again. Not taking her eyes off the woods, she darts her hand into the bucket and wets it, then brings it up under her now-loosened shirt. She smears her damp fingers across her armpits, then hastily grabs the gray soap and scribbles it over her pits like a blunt-tipped pencil, leaving soap streaks behind. Rey drops the soap swiftly; she crosses her arms and starts scrubbing her armpits using her bare hands, massaging the lather into the fine hair. Her restless gaze still scans the forest, alert for the first sign of intrusion. 

Still nothing...but only one area down.

Armpits are high leverage to wash, both because they stink and are easy to reach. The highest impact region will be the most difficult, though; it’s easy to reach while she’s squatting, but risky, and uncomfortable. Rey would much rather avoid it entirely, but the region in question is pungent when unwashed and far too distinct in its smell.

So Rey grits her teeth. 

Reluctantly, she scoops up a handful of water from the nearby bucket and brings her cupped palm to her cunt, splashing it. She repeats the motion until her dark pubic curls droop with moisture, dripping streams to the cold earth below. Rey gives her coarse hair one last vigorous scrub with her fingertips, baring her teeth from the chill. Then she pauses, hand covering her cunt, and listens: still nothing from the woods.

Satisfied she’s alone for the moment, Rey’s movements slow. She picks up the chunk of gray soap from beside her, rotating it in her free hand thoughtfully. Merely holding it makes her remember its source; Rey can still clearly picture the soap resting on Grace’s palm yesterday. The softness of the soap suggests Grace’s plump flesh, and Rey’s heart beats a little bit faster, remembering. Slowly, she lowers it down to her cunt.  _ There _ , she thinks, closing her eyes and sliding its surface along her own skin. In her mind, Grace’s warm hand is brushing her  _ there.  _

Rey flicks her eyes open halfway to scan her surroundings, before letting them fall shut again. Her brow creases. 

Grace’s hand would feel smooth, she thinks to herself. And soft. And... _comfortable_ against her own skin; in her mind, for right now, Rey can stand the sensation. Her breaths come a little bit faster as she slides the soap in a slow scrubbing motion. Her movements are hesitant, but Grace would be confident, warm. The hot chocolate edge of the laundress’s voice drips sweetly in Rey’s ear: _are you_ _looking for someone?_

The imagined words, and Rey’s motions, induce a sharp shiver of bodily pleasure. She halts, both her eyes snapping open. She nervously looks around the woods once again, then back down at herself. Gingerly, she slides the soap up to her apex, and the same aching shiver ripples through her thighs. The lips of her cunt loosely curl as they normally do, but the flesh underneath feels unusually taut. Rey carefully parts those red lips- her breath hitching again- and looks down at herself doubtfully: it’s a darker red inside and smooth as a shell. Warmly wet, she discovers, upon touching the flesh. Rey stares down at herself, thinking hard, but also  _ not  _ thinking as she slides her fingertips over the gloss.

Maybe...she decides...her cunt needs thorough cleaning.

With shyness born of inexperience, Rey brings the edge of the soap to her slit and slides it along it, like butter onto bread. She shudders, her thoughts falling back towards Grace. Why  _ hadn’t _ she dared to step closer, to flirt back? Rey speeds up, imagines a scene in brief flashes: one where she  _ had  _ kissed her cheek. She would stay there, lips lingering on her soft skin while her fingertips rose and ran over the swell of her breast. Rey’s thoughts crackle wildly: soft breast, and soft fabric, then fingertips brushing the edge of a taut, stiffened nipple, like hers, peeking out, to be found, tasted, taken...

Rey groans softly, still squatting, eyes closed and cheeks red. She presses the soap past her lips to the warm, foreign heat between them. It slips inside with a blunt motion that sparks a wet gasp. Rey repeats it, letting her head bow down with the sensation. Just for a moment, just for one moment more...she holds her reason at bay and thrusts deeply, amazed and faintly frightened at how slick the soap is becoming, how pungent...

In the wild, fuzzy haze of her thoughts, Rey remembers this soap is the captain’s _.  _ Her hand stutters in place; she wonders if he will smell her, or if he will  _ feel  _ her, the next time that he bathes. Rey pauses, lips parted; her thoughts veer between lust and her fear of discovery, and then, strangely, dovetail. Rey’s mental image of Grace disappears. Instead, she now sees the captain bathing with this soap. With this  _ dirtied  _ soap. Tinged by her desire, the idea is delicious. The corners of Rey’s mouth curl up nastily, and she starts scrubbing the soap on her cunt with new vigor. 

_ It serves him right _ , she thinks viciously, hazily, pumping the soap past her lips. She rubs it in deeper, creating a lather, imagining the bastard washing himself “clean” with her own body’s smell. Wiping the shine of it across his muscles, scowling at her while the ghost of her own heat slips over his skin. The imagery sends red-hot sparks through her system: him shirtless and clueless. Scrubbing her cunt-slick into his beard with his eyes closed, his neck tensed but lips loose, absorbing her scent. His hands would push down his waistband once again, and he’d trace the soap over his curls with the ghost of  _ her _ curls, so much like they were touching, were rubbing, were hot, causing friction, heat _ , fire _ \- 

Rey’s thighs ripple in place; her hips cant as a new, blinding shiver of sparks races up from her cunt to lace along her lungs. She swallows a cry of surprise and her hand startles open. The soap, half-sunk into her body, slips back onto the ground on a trickle of moisture. The soft thud of it landing gives Rey something to stare at...and something to awake her buried common sense _. _

“Fuck,” she swears softly; then, with feeling, “God  _ dammit _ .” 

Blood races through her cheeks in a fiery blush, laced with mortification. Rey can’t and  _ won’t  _ think about what just occurred; she just grits her teeth and snatches up the soap. She hurls it back into the bucket and scrubs it violently, until its outer skin has been shed like a snake’s. Until the water is entirely suds. Until her shame cools, the way that her cunt doesn’t. 

“God  _ dammit _ ,” she swears once again. 

**\---**

Rey’s life on Plutt’s farm had left no room for romance, and she’d liked it that way. She’d spent most of her days by herself on the homestead, soft-footing around the ill-tempered farmer. As Plutt’s ward, Rey always had some chore to do, even if it would be better done by grown men instead of the grim, waifish girl he’d acquired.

“Yer daddy gave you over to me,” Plutt would scowl, his face gleaming with dissatisfaction. “You don’t want me givin’ you back, do you girl?” 

His eyes would squint, knowing. Knowing, just as Rey did, that her father was long gone, that if Plutt “gave her away,” it would be to the woods and near-certain starvation.

“No sir,” Rey would say, her eyes trained on the ground. 

It was better to stay quiet, to avoid any conflict. Plutt would bust her up good if she “showed him some lip,” but even that outcome was kinder than some other fates. Rey dreaded the thought that some day Plutt might note the young woman her body was becoming. She worked harder because of it, willing the labor to thicken her muscles and roughen her hands. She hunched in on herself, became quiet enough that Plutt would loudly wonder if she’d been kicked in the head as a child once too often.

He should know; he had been the one kicking.

Sundays, though, were blessedly different. On Sundays, Rey would wake before the sun, working furiously to complete all her tasks. Then, and  _ only _ then, she could set off alone down the dirt road towards town and the plain, clapboard church. Rey often missed the start of Sunday school, but she made up for lost time by absorbing the lessons quickly. Rey was fiercely proud of herself for learning despite all Plutt’s efforts; her knowledge was a bright, burning kernel she guarded and warmed herself with, like an ember against a cold night. As for the school’s subject matter...Rey found the Bible inspiring, albeit unconvincing. She’d suffered too long to believe that God would punish Plutt, but she eagerly read all the tales of the meek who took matters into their own hands. It gave her hope- and bloody ideas- to read of their revenge.

Sunday school was also where she met Will.

“Hey,” a voice whispered one day while she’d sat at her pew. Rey had followed the psalm a few lines before glancing sidelong in the voice’s direction. Across the aisle, the youngest Ford boy, William, was looking at her; he waved slightly.

The Fords weren’t well off, so the whole family usually sat near the back of the church with the other poor workers like Rey. The better off townsfolk, like Mrs. Gibson, would pass their section with a sniff as though personally offended, but Rey liked the anonymity of the back pews, where most folks benignly (or less benignly) ignored her. Will’s greeting today was abnormal.

“Just sayin’ hey, Rey,” Will had whispered, as though sensing her thoughts. He had light brown hair and blue eyes, and a round cheek that dimpled whenever he smiled, like right now. Rey stared at that smile, then back up at his eyes. He had winked and looked down at his Bible. Rey’s gaze had returned to her own pages as well, but she couldn’t focus.

_ Just sayin’ hey, Rey. _

\---

Rey emerges again from the woods to find Captain Ren seated at his table. His brow is furrowed as he writes out a missive; he glances up briefly as she approaches...and then his gaze snags on her, lingering. Rey feels her cheeks flush, and she makes herself think about  _ any _ thing but the slick soap in her pocket. 

“Christ,” he says simply, his eyes following her. “You really can’t grow a beard.”

Rey unconsciously yanks her cap lower, feeling all too exposed with a freshly scrubbed face. “No, sir,” she mumbles, stepping past him to get to the hut. She crouches down, taking a moment to throw the soap- that  _ goddamned soap _ \- back inside, and to let her blush die. 

“You aren’t twelve, are you?” 

Just like that, her embarrassment fades, overtaken by pique.

“ _ No _ , sir,” she grits out, standing up again. She stalks over to the wood pile and snatches a fresh log to throw onto the fire. “I’m plenty old,” she mutters, feeling it.

“Good,” Ren says simply.

Rey glances over; his eyes are on her. Then they flick back down towards his missive, and he resumes writing again.

\---

There’s a tent that serves as a post office located near the center of their regiment’s camp. Every ten days or so, a rickety U.S. mail wagon trundles down the path to deliver its letters, causing a fervor among the infantrymen. The soldiers depend on fresh mail just as much as their keepsakes to connect with their loved ones at home; going weeks without letters makes even the most hardened soldiers turn sullen and sad like spurned children.

Letters, albeit briefly, make Rey the most popular soldier in Company K.

“Hey, Johnson!” calls Jesse, his head perking up from his whittling. “What you got there?”

Rey internally sighs, caught with her hands full. Jesse’s voice gets heads turning, and soon Rey is surrounded, all eyes eagerly trained on the bundle of mail that she holds to her chest.

“Hold on,” she says sternly, undoing the rope ties. She shuffles the mail in her hands, squinting at the first name. “We got mail here for Pickett?” She looks up, seeks his hand, gives it out. “One for Miller...Corbell…” she deftly delivers each envelope, keeping her eyes on her task so she won’t see the hopes- crushed or otherwise- brightening the eyes of the men. “One letter for Carter,” she continues. “Jesse? There you go…”

Rey doles out the mail piece by piece until all that’s left are the officers’ letters. “That’s all I have for you,” she says, apologetic. “Sorry boys.” 

The surrounding faces fall with disappointment. One veteran looks near to tears, and Rey’s hardened heart twinges.

“You can send out new letters,” she offers weakly. “I’ll make sure they’re mailed out if you bring them to me.”

Like kicked dogs, the empty-handed soldiers drift back to their huts. Rey watches them go, feeling old pains resurface. She knows all too well what it’s like in their shoes: to wait, endlessly, and to be disappointed. But Rey doesn’t let herself dwell; she squares her shoulders and walks on, ignoring both their hurt and hers.

Rey delivers Hux’s letter straight into his hand. The red-headed lieutenant is lounging by his tent flipping through an old Bible, but he drops it like a rock when he sees the fresh mail.

“Finally,” he mutters, tearing open the seal. “We haven’t had real mail for months.”

Rey frowns. “How’s that, sir?”

Hux eagerly pulls loose a sheaf of handwritten pages. “We’ve been moving all Fall for the war,” he says vaguely, hunting down the postmark. “Half the time the mail missed us, half the time it got sent back.” He frowns sharply and flips over the envelope, checking the front. “See?” he says, pointing. “This was sent in July. Gwen had to pay twice for the postage.”

Rey raises her eyebrows. “Who’s Gwen?”

Hux looks up and scowls, remembering himself. “None of your business,” he mutters, regaining his usual disdain. He shoos her with his free hand. “I’ve got reading to do.” 

Rey stifles a snort but turns slowly away. “Well, if you see Trugenne,” she says, “tell him that he’s got mail.”

“I don’t speak French!” Hux calls out from behind her, but Rey is already walking away.

\---

The captain isn’t at the campsite upon Rey’s return, but she doesn’t have any letters for him. It’s not really surprising; somehow she can’t picture the Butcher of Bull Run penning a heartfelt lover’s letter to some woman back north. The man hardly speaks besides yelling at drill or snarling out commands. Rey barely talks either, which leads to a turbulent silence between them more often than not. When they  _ do  _ converse, the captain and his aide, it’s much like two rocks glancing off of each other, chipping only slightly and throwing off sparks.

Rey is tracing the grain of the table, absorbed in these thoughts, when she hears heavy footsteps approaching. She glances up quickly, expecting to see Ren, but is surprised to see three of the sergeants instead. Trugenne strides in front of Quruque and Oushar; they all look quite anxious.

“I’ve got your letter,” Rey says, trying subtly to gauge their mood. 

She holds out the letter and Trugenne promptly snatches it out of her hand. Easily seven feet tall and as broad as a plow horse, Trugenne is imposing even on a good day. Right now, with his face crumpled into a frown, he’s somewhat terrifying, and Rey draws herself back.

“ _ Où est Ren? _ ” Trugenne rumbles, looking over her head.

“The captain?” Rey glances at Quruque, since his English seems best.

Quruque nods as the others split off to look behind the hut. “We want read the letter,” he says, looking squarely at Rey.

“So...go read it?” she replies, confused.

“Cannot.” Quruque shrugs.

“Oh,” Rey says, surprised. “You can’t…” She trails off, leaves her sentence unfinished:  _ can’t read. _

Quruque nods, unperturbed. Illiteracy isn’t unusual, in spite of the churches and schools that offer basic education. Some towns just don’t have any teachers, and even if they  _ do,  _ girls typically get pulled out early, and boys are dragged out of the classroom like clockwork to tend to the harvest or to work for a wage. These lumberjack-sergeants likely had a brief education, if they had one at all.

“I can read it for you,” Rey offers somewhat shyly. Quruque’s face lights up.

“ _ Luc _ ,” he shouts, calling out to the sergeant. “ _ Le petit nous lira la lettre.” _

Trugenne reappears from behind the hut, but he’s frowning. “ _ En anglais?” _

Quruque shrugs. “ _C’est_ _assez bon, non?”_

Within moments, Trugenne has purloined the captain’s chair and is seated, leaning anxiously forward. Oushar and Quruque both flank him, similarly attentive. Rey’s heart rate picks up, pricked by their anxiety, but she makes herself sit and calmly open the letter; it’s dated from the start of the summer. 

“Dear Luc,” she begins, reading quickly from nerves. “Faith is writing this for me. I hope that your captain can read it to you as he’s done. I hope also-”

_ “Ralentis _ ,” Trugenne snaps. 

“Slow down,” Quruque says, just a little less sharply. 

Rey stops and inhales, already regretting her offer. Trugenne’s massive knee is jiggling in place, and he wrings both his hands in his lap like he’d like to wring something else- say, her neck. 

Rey is about to start over again when the captain mercifully appears. He walks out of the woods still rebuckling his belt, and Rey feels a shock of  _ relief  _ at the sight of the man; it’s a novel reaction.

“Captain!” she says hastily, standing to attention.

Ren pauses mid-action, clearly somewhat confused. His mismatched gaze travels from Rey’s hopeful face, to the letter she’s holding, to the three anxious sergeants. 

“Ah,” he says simply. 

Quruque starts speaking rapidly in his patois, with Oushar chiming in, but the captain waves both of them into silence. He makes his way over towards Rey and sits heavily down on a crate. 

“Start again,” he says gruffly. His face is impassive. “I’ll translate.”

Still relieved, Rey obeys. She begins with, “Dear Luc-”

“ _ Cher Luc-” _

“Faith is writing this for me...”

“ _ Faith écrit ceci pour moi...” _

Rey goes slower this time, pausing after each sentence. Captain Ren squints into the middle distance and translates the words as they go line by line, his rough voice rumbling over the French, while the sergeants listen and squirm with impatience. They make short work of the introduction, as it were, and then Rey arrives at the meat of the matter.

“I have the most wonderful news to give you,” she reads slowly, “news that we both prayed for.” She glances up quickly as Ren translates it into French, and sees the three sergeants stiffen. Trugenne might not be breathing.

Rey takes a deep, nervous breath. Then she reads on, carefully, under their watchful eyes: “Our son was born on-”

Quruque roars, interrupting her. He grabs Trugenne by the arm and babbles in French- clearly having understood Rey- and Oushar whoops out loud. They slap Trugenne on the back, on the head, shake his shoulders- both grinning wildly and shouting- while Trugenne looks between them, dumbfounded.

“ _ Vraiment?”  _ he asks softly, jostling between them. A slow smile creeps across his broad face, and he looks hopefully towards Ren. 

Rey- whose mouth hangs a little agape- also looks at the captain. Ren has an air of studied amusement, but he plucks the pages out of Rey’s grasp and reads over the lines. 

“ _ Vraiment _ ,” he says simply.

Trugenne bursts into tears. 

He’s still grinning, so it’s very confusing to see, and Oushar and Quruque continue to lovingly bully him. 

“ _ Papa Trugenne _ ,” Oushar croons, pinching the huge man’s bearded cheeks. Trugenne swats him away, somehow chuckling and crying at the same time. He heaves out great, tremulous bits of French that Rey can’t understand while Oushar and Quruque chatter back in the same tongue, congratulating the new father. It’s beautiful, somehow, even without knowing the words, and Rey glances sidelong at the captain. He’s watching the scene just as she is, a slight upward tilt to his lips. Even as she watches, Ren glances over at her with his good eye and then covers his mouth with his hand. Rey looks away, chastened.

_ So this is what it looks like _ , she thinks, turning back to the sergeants,  _ when somebody  _ wants _ their baby. _

Before her thoughts can turn melancholy, Trugenne breaks free from the celebration and begs Ren to continue the letter. The captain deftly picks up from where they left off, reading alone through the rest of the message. His heavy brows raise at a couple of points.

“What was that?” Rey asks softly, while Trugenne is ribbed by his fellow sergeants.

“She wants to make more,” Ren says dryly in English, not lifting his gaze from the page.

Rey sits back silently, her cheeks red.

Showing uncommon patience, the captain reads through Trugenne’s letter two times. Once he’s finished the second time, though, he unceremoniously holds out the pages for the sergeant to reclaim. Trugenne bounces out of his seat, all his prior anxiety gone. He smiles broadly when he takes the letter.

“ _ Merci _ ,” he practically chirps at the captain. Then, looking at Rey he says in English, “Thank you.”

The sergeants continue to chatter as they return down the path towards the center of camp. Someone steps to the side to let the three through; when they’ve gone by, and that someone continues to approach, Rey realizes it’s Captain Dameron.

“I’ve missed some excitement, it seems,” he calls drolly.

“What do you want,” Ren barks back. His usual scowl falls firmly into place.

“Always with the warm welcome,” the other man sighs. Dameron strolls closer to the table; he puts a foot up on one crate and leans onto that knee. 

“Good morning, Johnson,” he says with a broad, charming grin. Rey’s cheeks warm slightly; she stands crisply and salutes.

“Morning, captain,” she returns. Peripherally, she can sense  _ her  _ captain’s face darken.

“What is it?” Ren snarls.

“I’m simply paying a visit,” Dameron returns mildly. “Army life is so dull when we’re not being shot at.” He swivels his head to look back at the departing sergeants. “What was the occasion?”

“Trugenne’s a new father,” Rey blurts out, again earning Ren’s glare.

Dameron’s face lights up. “That’s good news,” he says with a genuine smile. “Though,” he tilts his head, thinking. “The timing…” He looks over at Ren, frowning faintly. “When did they enlist?”

“61’” Ren says without needing to think. “Winter,“ he adds when Dameron still frowns. 

“Ah.” Dameron’s expression clears. “It’s probably his, then.”

Ren grunts noncommittally, crossing his arms over his broad chest. He looks flatly at Dameron until the other man sighs. 

“Fine,” says the captain. “I have news,” he admits. He glances meaningfully at Rey, and then back at Ren. 

Rey immediately shifts to start walking away, but to her  _ great  _ surprise, Ren shrugs and says, “Johnson can stay.” The moment’s quite ruined when he adds with a glare, “He knows that I’ll gut him if a  _ word _ of this travels.” 

Rey’s expression hardens, but Dameron simply nods and leans in even closer, his voice dropping slightly. 

“Burnside is out,” he says with low excitement.

Rey senses her captain stiffen in his chair. “When?” he demands.

“Recently,” Dameron murmurs, “maybe even last week. He’s  _ already gone _ .” The man smiles, his eyes bright with fiery vindication. “I heard he resigned, but I’ll bet it was a close thing between that and Lincoln dragging him out.” 

Ren sits back, clearly thinking it through. “Who’s the new one?” he asks warily. 

“The new general? Hooker, finally.”

Ren snorts in disgust. “The one that they’re naming whores after?”

“As long as he’s fucking them and not us,” replies Dameron with a tight, hard-eyed smile. Ren surveys his face for a moment, then nods. The two captains lapse into pensive silence for a moment, while Rey, in a similar silence, files away all of this new information for later review.

Finally, Ren sighs and rubs wearily at the scarred side of his face. “Hooker’s aggressive,” he rumbles. “We could do worse.”

“It’ll be a hot summer,” Dameron agrees, and Rey suspects that he’s not talking about weather. “Still,” the man adds, in a brighter, louder tone. “Given the occasion, we ought to celebrate.”

Ren’s hand stops. “Celebrate?”

“Just a friendly card game,” Dameron says with a glint in his eye.

Ren shakes his head, scowling.

“Look,” Dameron says with a sigh, “morale has been low since the march. We haven’t played poker since…” he trails off, eyeing Ren’s face, “...December, most likely.” Rey’s captain just glares, so he tries a new tack. “What about Trugenne?” he insists. “Shouldn’t he celebrate his good news?” 

Captain Ren drums his fingertips against the table, twisting his lips fitfully. Rey thinks that he’ll surely refuse once again, but his good eye flickers towards the path that his sergeants had travelled. 

“Fine,” he grates out.

“Splendid!” exclaims Dameron, stepping back from his crate. “We’ll all gather here.”

Ren’s gaze snaps back immediately. “We are  _ not  _ doing it here.”

“Well, you’re not coming to  _ my _ camp,” Dameron says firmly. “Not after last time. I’m still trying to salvage my hut.” 

“That was your own fault,” Ren grumbles. 

“I was  _ sleeping  _ inside _.” _

Ren glares back at him flatly. “So don’t cheat lumberjacks.”

Dameron’s lips narrow, along with his eyes. “ _ Fine, _ ” he says sharply. “If your dogs can behave themselves this time, at  _ your  _ camp, we’ll have it at mine the next two.”

“Done.”

“Good.” Dameron smiles abruptly, erasing his stormy expression. “I’ll see you tonight after taps, then. Johnson,” he adds in farewell, tipping his cap to Rey. She salutes him again and he flashes her his charming grin before strolling away, whistling. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Ren levels his most murderous glare onto her.

“I want two cases of scotch, two tables, and chairs for ten men,” he rumbles without preamble. “Make sure that they’re here before taps.”

Rey blinks. “I’ll...do my best, sir.”

“No, you’ll  _ do  _ it,” Ren snaps. “You’re a scavenger;  _ scavenge. _ ”

“Yes, sir,” Rey grits out.

“No salute?” the captain says nastily, scowling at her. He jerks his head brusquely towards camp before Rey can reply. “Tell the sergeants what time the game is.”

“Yes,  _ sir _ ,” Rey repeats. She pointedly does  _ not  _ salute before leaving, already wondering how she can beg, borrow, or steal all the furniture needed. She’s still half-distracted when she stops by the sergeants’ campfire to inform them of the game. Her news is met with resounding good cheer; Trugenne is in such high spirits, he offers to accompany her to Mitaka’s.

“I carry scotch,” he says magnanimously. He starts walking with Rey before she can object, and she finds herself practically scampering to catch up to his long-limbed stride. They walk in silence on the way, the quiet broken only by Trugenne humming merrily under his breath. After wheedling two cases out of a very unhappy Mitaka, the two of them start their route back much the same. Trugenne carries his case with one arm like it weighs no more than a down pillow; Rey eyes his biceps with practical appreciation.

“Thank you,” she says grudgingly, finally, “for carrying that.”

“ _ De rien _ ,” he says cheerfully, shrugging in lieu of waving her off.

Rey sighs and looks back down the path. “Leaves me time for the rest of the  _ list  _ I’ve been given,” she says half to herself. Bitterness creeps into her tone as she adds, “Captain’s orders.”

Trugenne’s steps slow down. He shoots Rey a quizzical glance, half comprehending. “You fight the captain?” he asks.

Rey stifles a snort. “No,” she says frankly, “he’s just...difficult.”

Trugenne furrows his brow. He repeats, “Difficult.” Then he inclines his head slightly, considering her. “This is bad?” 

This time Rey doesn’t stifle her snort. The sergeant’s frown deepens. He stops walking, which takes Rey a few steps to realize.

Trugenne shakes his head at her from where he still stands. “No,” he says firmly. Then, “ _ Viens.”  _ He sets his crate down on the ground and crooks a finger at her. Then he kneels down and pulls off his cap. “ _ Regards.” _

Rey walks slowly back to him, internally cursing herself for letting her dissatisfaction rise up to the surface. In spite of her reluctance, she leans in to see what Trugenne’s pointing at: an ugly, ridged scar lances through his short hair like pink lightning. It shears from his temple towards the base of his skull in a straight line made clear by the missing top half of his ear. Rey winces to see it; it likely should have killed him. 

“Summer,” Trugenne says, “there is battle.” He tilts his head up to look closely at Rey with frank eyes; they search hers to make sure she understands him. “Shrapnel. I fall,” he says simply, slapping the back of his hand into the palm of the other. “Ren...” he hesitates, thinking, then taps the scotch crate “...carry me.” He frowns, then drags the crate slightly. “Pull? ‘E pull me.” He smiles slightly. “I live.” 

Rey averts her gaze from the sergeant, suddenly embarrassed. She stares down at the ground at her feet, wishing it would swallow both her and her anger alike.

“‘E is so small,” Trugenne says fondly; he’s likely the only man who could say that of Ren. “To pull me, it is...how you say... _ difficult _ , no _? _ ” 

Rey’s toes curl with shame. When she glances back up at Trugenne, though, he only looks mildly at her. He stands and dusts off both his knees. 

“‘E is a good man,” he says firmly, picking back up his crate, and Rey has nothing to say in response. She falls in silently at the sergeant’s side and the odd pair starts walking again: Trugenne merrily whistling, and Rey lost in thought.

\---

Trugenne lingers long enough to set his crate down beneath the captain’s awning. Then, with a salute towards Ren, and a more joking one towards Rey, he trots off to start mustering the men. Rey awkwardly shifts in the ensuing silence, forcing herself to consider the endlessly perplexing man before her.

The captain, for his part, simply ignores Rey. He’s made himself coffee for once while she was away, and he busies himself by dumping clean snow in his cup to help it cool quickly. Rey studies him out of the corner of her eye. She  _ should _ be making a plan to start foraging chairs, but Trugenne’s story preoccupies her.

“Were you a soldier?” she asks finally. Ren glances sharply at her, his expression just shy of annoyance. “Before the war,” Rey clarifies firmly. “What you did before. Were you already a soldier?”

Ren shifts his jaw, considering her. “No,” he says bluntly. Then he turns his attention back onto the snow.

Rey watches him openly now, trying to puzzle him out. Last time, after he’d bathed, her first guesses had centered on physical roles. Now she forces herself to cast a wider net.

“Were you a teacher?” she asks doubtfully.

Ren swirls his tin coffee cup, watching the snow melt. “No,” he says again. His expression is stony, but he doesn’t redirect her or shoo her away. Instead, he is...subtly expectant. 

Rey relaxes.

“Preacher?” she asks next.

He shoots her an incredulous look.

“Politician?” she asks, faintly amused.

So is he; Ren snorts and stands up. He takes a quick pull of the coffee, and, finding it cooled enough, gulps it down in one go. Rey opens her mouth to make another guess, but she’s cut off by the trumpeting of Carter’s bugle; it’s time for the company’s afternoon drill. The captain casually tosses his empty cup onto the table, and it lands on its side with a  _ clang _ .

“Better luck next time,” he says in his gravelly voice.

Rey blinks, surprised. It’s almost...a concession from him. Or an acknowledgement, maybe.  _ A game. _

Ren glances at her. His gaze lingers a moment, expression inscrutable. Then he turns away and his face becomes hard.

“If you don’t have those tables set up by the time I return,” he says with a snarl, “I’ll use your back for the purpose.”

Rey’s head rears back involuntarily, stung by the shift. The captain glowers at her before turning to go, and Rey is glad, in that moment, that she’s ruined his soap. She’s glad to forget Trugenne’s story, to forget what she feels, on occasion, when it’s night in the hut with the captain’s breaths slowing and her fingers in his hair.

“Yes, sir,” she snaps back. And she is glad indeed that he doesn’t catch sight of her mocking salute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year, B+B readers! It's been a wild ride so far here in America, but I hope you've all found some kind of cheer in your personal lives. I also hope you enjoyed this new chapter! I apologize because this was supposed to be a juicy chapter including the card game, and instead it got so damn long that I realized I needed to split things up. If this feels like kinda a bridge chapter, that's why, but I was thrilled to include a bunch of tidbits like a piece of Rey's past, a spotlight on Trugenne, and more Poe in our lives. Fun fact: my headcanon for what happened at the last poker game is that the sergeants found axes and drunkenly destroyed Poe's hut while he was sleeping inside.
> 
> When I first started this story, I thought the whole thing would be done in 10 chapters. That's a hard nope from me; at this point we've just started Act 2 (the Smuttening). Act 2 leads up to Act 3 (the Fuckening) and there's an Act 4 after that. The whole thing should be less than 30 chapters, but in some ways this next Act is the most exciting because the small acts of intimacy leading up to a fuck are often the most electric.
> 
> Anyway! I wish you all the best, and THANK YOU so, so, so much for your kudos, shares, and comments. They (and you) are truly the best <3
> 
> FRENCH
> 
> Ou est Ren= where is Ren  
> Le petit nous lira la lettre= the little one will read us the letter  
> En anglais = in english?  
> C’est assez bon, non? = good enough, no?  
> Ralentis= slow down  
> Vraiment= really  
> De rien= it's nothing  
> Viens= come  
> Regards= look  
> Vraiment=really
> 
> REFERENCES
> 
> -I read up a little [here](https://about.usps.com/news/national-releases/2012/pr12_civil-war-mail-history.pdf) about the US postal service during the war. They did keep up a delivery service to soldiers- which is pretty wild, considering- but it was difficult to deliver during times of active warfare when the troops were on the move. Soldiers could write "soldier's letter" on their envelope to avoid paying for postage.
> 
> -[Burnside](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ambrose_Burnside) did resign as general after the mud march, and Lincoln was none too happy with him. [Joseph Hooker](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_Hooker) took over, and he indeed is the source of the term "hooker" for prostitutes, given his hard-partying ways. Honestly, sounds like he'd have fun at the poker game tonight.


	10. The Card Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bi beacons are lit!  
> (A dumbass calls for his aide)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoooo lordy, this chapter is a big boi! It's seriously about the length of 2+ normal chapters, so buckle up for all that. Also, I *always* appreciate comments, but can you let me know what you think of this one in particular? I've been staring at it so long I've lost all perspective, and there's a lot of stuff happening that I'd love feedback on <3
> 
> CW: copious amounts of alcohol, fist fights  
> Note: Scotch is technically a type of whiskey, so that's why I use both terms.  
> Annnnnd, [moodboard](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EvLUntLWQAEn0Sz?format=jpg&name=4096x4096) for this chapter

Rey powerfully swings her axe down at the girth of a large, fallen tree.

_Thunk._

She pictures the captain’s broad back.

_Thunk._

She pictures him snarling at her.

_Thunk._

This morning’s vision swims back to the surface: he sneers while he slides the soap over his-

_THWACK._

Rey’s arms pulse with pain upon impact, but she grits her teeth and keeps swinging, shutting her eyes against flying splinters. With her eyes closed, she doesn’t know if her axe is landing in the deep trough that she’s already cut, but she doesn’t care; she just wants to burn off all memory of the captain. Thinking about him has become like picking a scab: it’s unconscious, somewhat fascinating, and results in as much pain as it does a strange pleasure. It’s starting to feel like a habit, and Rey doesn’t have _time_ for habits.

The next blow of her axe falls awry and jostles Rey’s shoulder. She opens both eyes with a hiss and comes to a halt, letting the axe’s blade swing down to the ground. Not feeling much calmer, Rey leans on its haft wearily and surveys her work.

The trunk of this tree is quite wide, curving up from the ground to just above her knees. A storm, perhaps, or some weakness in the dirt, has resulted in it falling over; the great mess of its exposed root system rises into the air. The tree in its entirety is too large for Rey to handle alone, but the section she’s excising from the trunk will be long enough to seat four grown men. 

_“I want two cases of scotch, two tables, and chairs for ten men,”_ the captain had said.

Well, he’d get what he asked for.

The scotch is already at camp thanks to Trugenne. A couple more trips back to Mitaka’s had yielded more crates that will serve as fine chairs. As soon as this log is freed from the tree, Rey can roll it to camp using wedges she nicked from the depot. That will round out the seating, and _then_ she can seek out a second table.

Rey wearily wipes a hand across her forehead and finds herself beaded with sweat. When she holds her hand up, she sees steam rising off it. Alone in the woods, and in spite of the cold air, she’s tempted to take off her jacket, at least...but her shirt is soaked through from the past hours’ exertions. If a perimeter guard or a soldier walks by, they might be able to see through her shirt to her breast band.

Rey sighs. Considering how much she has left to do, she begins to suspect that she’s bitten off more than she can chew. She _has_ broken down fallen trees before now, but they’re normally smaller, and she’d had a whole day, or _days,_ even, to cut them. 

Resigned, the aide grimly straightens her shoulders. She glances up at the sky to gauge her remaining sunlight, then hoists the axe up once again.

\---

The sergeants show up soon after the men’s drill lets out.

It’s three of them in all: Appleque, Oushar, and Cardeaux, sniffing after the sounds of Rey’s saw like eager hunting dogs. Rey has chopped halfway through both ends of her tree at that point and is working on sawing through the rest. Exhausted and slimy with sawdust and sweat, Rey doesn’t have the energy to shoo them away. She resolves to ignore them instead, enduring their professional muttering in the background. She even succeeds, until one of them gently taps her on the shoulder.

Too tired to flinch, Rey nevertheless yanks her shoulder away and glares back at the hovering men.

Cardeaux shrugs, then gestures at himself, Appleque, and Oushar.

“We will take a turn,” Cardeaux says graciously.

Rey opens her mouth to object...and then shuts it. Her lips form a tight line.

On one hand, the sun is almost down, and she still has a table to fetch. She’s spent hours cutting this tree, and it might take hours more if she goes it alone. But Rey _hates_ asking for help; more, she _knows_ what will happen. Every instinct she has screams that if she accepts, the sergeants will betray her trust. They’ll be called away, or abandon the work, and the dark of the night will fall over this tree trunk and all her failed efforts. Rey isn’t sure how the captain would punish her, but she _is_ certain he would.

Rey looks from her saw to Cardeaux’s burly face. She squints up at the sergeant and finally decides that his gaze isn’t pitying. Against her better judgement, and with a knot in her gut, she nods slightly and backs away from the trunk.

Immediately, Oushar and Appleque spring forward to take her place at the saw. With easy, practiced motions, they fall into a rhythm on either side of the tree, deepening the trench Rey has cut into its side. They chatter cheerily to one another, for all the world like they’re on a picnic.

“Lumberjacks,” Rey mutters faintly, more awed than upset.

“We will bring it to camp,” Cardeaux rumbles. Rey glances at him. He looks back at her briefly, then waves one heavy hand in her direction, shooing her off.

Rey’s lips twist as she internally struggles. “Thank you,” she finally croaks. Her voice is clipped from distrust and disuse.

Cardeaux inclines his head.

Rey hovers a moment longer, but the sergeants show no sign of stopping. She turns away stiffly and walks back towards camp, steeling herself for yet another favor.

  
  


\---

  
  


“I need a table,” Rey mumbles awkwardly. She stares down at the ground, not even looking Wexley in the face.

“What’s that?”

Rey takes a thin breath and forces her eyes up. She’s standing in the middle of company B, and Wexley is seated before her, a spoonful of soup halfway up to his lips. The good-natured young aide seems genuinely confused.

“I need to borrow a table,” Rey grits out, more precisely this time. “For tonight’s card game.”

Wexley’s face immediately clears. “Oh, that’s what you said,” he replies easily. “Sure, you can use ours.”

Rey is already steeled for rejection; her thoughts stumble slightly over his affirmation.

“I can?” she asks dubiously.

“You can,” he confirms. He stands up from his place at the campfire, setting his cup of stew down by his makeshift chair. “I’ll help you carry it over.”

“Thank you,” Rey says after a moment; it feels like bad luck to say the phrase twice in one day.

“Of course!” says the aide affably. He gestures for her to follow him and starts walking briskly away from the fire. “I’ll be there tonight,” he confides, “so I’ll be using the table as well.”

“You will?” Rey frowns slightly, trailing behind him. “Captain Dameron would allow you to join?”

“‘Course he would.” Wexley glances at her. “There are all kinds of captains, Johnson. Poe- Captain Dameron, that is- he’s the good kind.”

Rey feels a twinge she can’t precisely name. Regret, perhaps, that Dameron isn’t her captain. And defensiveness, perhaps, at the insinuation that Ren is the _bad_ kind.

_But he is_ , she reminds herself, crinkling her brow.

“So, Captain Ren,” Wexley says leadingly, as though reading her thoughts. They’ve arrived at a new campsite; this one has proper chairs and a table. Wexley rounds the wooden table and grips it from that side. “You take that end,” he says briefly; then, as they lift, he asks, “What’s it like being his man?”

_I wouldn’t know_ , Rey thinks wryly to herself. What she says is: “Different.” Then: “I suppose you know more than I do.”

“About what?”

They’re stepping sideways down the path back towards Company K. Rey keeps her eyes on the snowy, bumpy path as she grips the chilled wood of the table. 

“About the captain,” she says, looking down at the ground. “You’ve known him for longer. What do _you_ think of him?”

Wexley ruefully chuckles. “I’m glad I’ve got Poe, let’s just say. No offense.” 

“None taken.”

Wexley avoids a puddle. He thinks for a moment in silence, then adds, “Well, they call him the Butcher.”

“Mhm.”

“He’s got a _rotten_ temper.”

“You don’t say.”

Wexley laughs at her tone. “I know that he doesn’t keep his aides very long. You’re a record, I think.”

Another twinge in Rey’s belly, this time like satisfaction. Rey shakes her head and scowls down at her boots.

“He’s stuck with me,” she says shortly. Then, changing the focus: “How exactly are the captains acquainted? Captain Dameron seems friendly enough, but Captain Ren is...less so.”

Wexley snorts. 

“We all enlisted and trained at the same time back in Boston,” he says, glancing at her. “At first we avoided your captain.” He shrugs awkwardly. “Everyone did. But after the first battle of Bull Run, Poe decided to go pick his brain.”

“Why’s that?”

“K was right at the thick of the fighting,” Wexley says, “but most of them made it. ‘S rare. Poe isn’t too proud to ask for advice when he sees something working.”

Rey nods slowly, digesting. “And the card games?” she asks.

“That would be Poe, again,” Wexley says with a grin. “Took him the best part of a year to convince Ren. Poe’s stubborn like that, think he sees it as a challenge.”

They set down the table briefly, stretching their arms. Wexley leans on it, looking at her. His brown eyes become thoughtful.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he tells her sincerely. “Captain Ren has his place. K goes deep during the fighting, and you’re usually the last to fall back. You’ve covered our asses and everyone knows it.”

Rey eyes him. “Do _you_ fight?”

“Me?” Wexley shakes his head fervently _no_. He straightens and picks up his side of the table again. “I’m out on the field, but I’m a courier, mostly. Passing on orders and the like. I’ve had to chase down your captain more than once, trying to tell him it’s time to retreat.”

Rey nods, hefting up her end of the table. “Do you like it?” she asks him, looking down at her hands.

“Like what?”

Rey shrugs awkwardly. “Being there in the battle.”

“Huh.” Wexley leaves it at that for a moment. Too late, Rey considers that it might be an uncomfortable subject for him. But he finally says, “I don’t guess that I _like_ it. I guess nobody does.” 

Rey’s lips tighten. Something like disappointment flashes through her belly, but she swallows and nods; Wexley doesn’t take notice.

“But I’m here to serve,” he says easily, a proud smile overtaking his face. “That’s why I’m a soldier.” He looks at Rey breezily. “What about you?”

Rey shrugs quickly. “Same thing, I expect.”

Wexley nods, satisfied with her answer. Rey stares down at the dirt and her mind echoes: _what about you?_

  
  


\---

  
  


“What _about_ you?” Plutt asked irritably. He had loomed over Rey, his bulk crammed in the seat of the old buckboard wagon.

“We’re not done with the planting,” Rey had muttered softly. She could still feel the red dirt caked under her nails, the old sweat on her brow.

“Ain’t no _we_ about it, and yer nearly done,” Plutt had said, spitting sourly off to the side. “Besides, ain’t no point in the planting if Johnston’s fellers gonna take the corn off anyway.” The war was still fresh as the newly-tilled dirt, but already Johnston’s Army of Northern Virginia was notorious for scrounging from nearby farms. 

“If there’s no point,” Rey said quietly, “then why should I stay at the farm and tend to it?”

Plutt’s hand twitched on his thin, whippy horse switch. “Careful girl,” he had growled, narrowing piggy eyes at her. 

“Sorry, sir,” she said rotely. Rey shifted, foot to foot. “Only...when will you be back?”

“Gonna miss me?” Plutt said with an unpleasant grin. His eyes glinted in a way that made Rey take a wary step back from the wagon; perhaps her attempts to bury her gender had not worked so well after all.

“What do I say when folks ask after you?” she said to deflect him, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

Plutt scowled and sat back. “You don’t tell ‘em at all. I might go visit my cousin. Might wait out the war.” He spat once again. “I’ll be back when I’m back.”

Rey’s jaw churned a little; she couldn’t be glad of it yet. “But what if the soldiers come take all the stores?”

“You’ll make do,” Plutt said flatly, taking up the reins. Then he smirked. “And if not, there’s always yer daddy.”

Rey’s eyes flared up at him. “He’s gone,” she’d snapped, stating the obvious.

Plutt flicked the reins, spurring on his horses. They started to move and he called out, “Naw, he’s in Washington last time I heard.”

“ _What.”_

Rey’s whole world swung crazily, centered on Plutt’s words. A part of her heart dropped straight down through her stomach. Her next breath felt slow, like the dripping of syrup.

“What did you say?” she was saying. Her feet were following Plutt at a trot, slapping on the dirt road, although she didn’t remember starting to move.

“Heard he drank through my money real quick in D.C.,” Plutt called out, casually cruel. “Guess yer not worth a lot in a city.”

Rey’s feet had stopped moving again. Plutt called something else, something threatening, likely, but Rey couldn’t hear it. She brought her hands up to her face and felt that they were shaking. Like splinters of glass, memories pierced through her mind: a hand gripping her elbow, a man walking away. Glimpses of that man’s face: green-brown eyes, scratchy beard. The sound of his voice singing lullabies as she slept curled at his side.

Her father. In _Washington._

Some feeling- what was it?- too heavy to name rose inside her, overtaking her vision. It felt like a burning white curtain of light, like an old testament flood to wash over the world.

Her father had sold her...for what? Drinking money? 

The _years_ she had spent, for a month’s drinking money.

Rey clenched her shaking hands into fists. She turned her head stiffly to look at the farm through the burning white haze in her eyes: like a prophecy, she saw it swallowed by flames, and the dark voice inside of her whispered sweetly: _good._

\---

Rey and Wexley make good time walking back to Ren’s camp; they deliver the table with time still to spare before taps. Rey hastily thanks the other aide and trots off to fetch dinner, but the cook’s almost down to the dregs of the soup by the time she gets through the long line. Rey’s stomach sinks; she’d been hoping that dinner might appease the captain.

“There’s not any meat left?” she asks anxiously.

“Not unless you use a finger to stir it,” jokes the cook. Oblivious to Rey’s displeasure, he scrapes a thick ladle of glop off of the pot’s bottom and into Rey’s outstretched cup.

“This one’s for the captain,” Rey says with a frown.

“Well…” the cook reconsiders, looking around “...I don’t have any meat, but I guess he can have a couple extra biscuits.”

“What, to build a wall with?” Rey snaps, her temper flaring. The cook shoots her a wounded expression and she forces herself to scale back.

“Sorry,” she mutters. “It’s been a long day.” She cradles both soup tins in the crook of one arm and takes the proffered biscuits with her free hand, murmuring insincere thanks.

Rey slinks back to the captain’s campsite. When she’d delivered the table with Wexley a half hour ago, there had been no sign of Ren...and no sign of her log-bench either. Now, the captain has shown up like a bad penny. He has his huge boots propped up on one of Rey’s crates and he’s close to the fire, playing solitaire using a worn deck of cards. Rey notes that the tree log is still nowhere to be seen, and a shiver of nerves races down her back.

The captain doesn’t overtly react to her presence. Rey prefers it that way; she silently puts his cup down next to his elbow on the table, then retreats. Her own dinner in hand, she moves towards the far side of the fire and hopes that the darkness will swallow her up.

“You brought a second table,” says Ren, breaking the silence.

Rey internally curses but keeps walking. “Yes, sir.”

From the corner of her eye, Rey sees him slowly nod.

_Ffnap._ Another card down on the table. 

“Brought the whiskey,” he adds, almost mildly.

“Yes, sir.”

He nods again, this time with Rey’s full attention. 

“You brought-” here he pauses forebodingly; he looks around the campground. “One-” he bobs his chin at one crate “-two, three...four, five…” He looks over at Rey. “Six chairs,” he ends flatly. His ruined eye shines ghostly gray.

Rey nods stiffly. “Yes, sir.”

The captain holds her gaze, a card still in his hand. “How many did I ask for?”

“Enough for ten men, sir.”

The silence grows ominous. Ren’s eyes, black and gray, bore into her own.

“I don’t think,” he says in a tightly wound voice, “that four men can fit on your back, private Johnson.”

Rey clenches her hands into fists. White light flickers across her vision and she teeters on the edge of _some_ thing that she will regret, when loud voices ring out from the woods near the tent. Both captain and aide startle slightly and look towards the woods, abandoning their burgeoning fight. 

“We bring a gift!” booms Appleque a moment later. The large sergeant, grinning, appears out of the darkness. He’s rolling one end of Rey’s log while Cardeaux shoves the other. Oushar darts in front of them, waving them towards the even ground of the campsite.

Rey feels a surge of relief so complete, she quite nearly smiles, her anger forgotten. Across from her, the captain frowns.

“ _Qu’est-ce que c’est?”_ he asks irritably.

“ _Un cadeau pour ton cul, il a déjà dit_ ,” Oushar sniggers, looking over his shoulder. 

The captain makes a rude gesture- a surprisingly mild reaction to Oushar’s informal tone- but Oushar doesn’t seem bothered. He smiles sweetly in answer to Ren’s deepened scowl, then turns to Rey.

“Is good, yes?” he asks earnestly, pointing at the log. 

Still fighting an abnormally light, happy feeling, Rey walks over to the new makeshift bench and surveys it. 

“It’s good,” she says, forcing her voice to stay steady. She clears her throat. “Very good.”

“ _Tres bien!”_ Appleque repeats in French, a pleased look on his face. He looks to the captain. “We drink to celebrate, no?” 

Ren is staring at the log as though personally insulted. His lower jaw churns, but after a brief moment he gives a brusque nod. Oushar and Appleque start to chatter in French to each other, ambling towards the liquor that’s stored by the side of the hut. Cardeaux stays where he is, his massive arms crossed.

“Captain,” he says quietly.

Ren throws him an acidic glance but says nothing. His movements are sharp as he gathers his cards.

“We finish cutting this tree for Johnson,” Cardeaux says. “It is...difficult.”

“So?”

“Difficult for three men.”

Ren’s mouth goes as flat as a blade, tugging at his scars. “Your _point?_ ” he bites out.

“If you want a tree cut,” Cardeaux says slowly, “you can ask us, who know how to cut trees.”

Ren stops moving and Rey inhales sharply, surprised. Cardeaux’s tone is even, but there’s a clear undercurrent of disapproval. _You should have asked us instead_ , is what he means to say. Rey looks quickly from Cardeaux to the captain, fearing an explosion.

“I asked for chairs,” says the captain precisely, narrowing his eyes. “I didn’t expect him to cut down a whole whore-sucking tree.” 

Cardeaux nods. “But ‘e did.”

Ren glares back. “But he did.”

Rey glances between them: Cardeaux steady as stone and Ren prickly with anger. She doesn’t understand the dynamics at play, but she _does_ suspect she should keep her mouth shut lest it rile up the captain. Her patience is rewarded a moment later when, remarkably, Ren just sits back in his chair.

“ _Fine_ ,” he snaps loudly. His anger dwindles down into sullen displeasure, and Ren darts his eyes towards Rey. 

“Get the others,” he snarls, standing up from his chair. He turns towards Oushar and Appleque. “And _get me a bottle.”_

\---

Rey feels, not for the first time, out of place in the circle of soldiers.

She hovers behind captain Ren and his sergeants, not invited to sit but not dismissed either. It’s not unpleasant, exactly; the sergeants are quite cheerful. They’ve already toasted Trugenne’s son, and Trugenne, and his wife, and all wives...they’ve gotten creative. Now they rumble comfortably to one another in their strange patois. It flows through the air like some new kind of music, peppered with short bursts of English and French. It’s accompanied by the high clinking of bottles; to Rey’s consternation, the men have all opted to each open a bottle of whiskey instead of sharing their liquor in cups. 

Packed in among his soldiers, Ren is doggedly sour. He nurses his bottle, speaks only briefly, and utterly ignores Rey’s presence behind him. Perhaps it’s because of Cardeaux’s intervention. Perhaps it’s because the bench was almost late. Perhaps- and most likely- he simply hates her.

Either way, it’s _fine._ It’s _fine_ being ignored. 

Quruque is the one who intervenes, in his way. The sergeant gets up from his seat on the log bench and stretches. Almost casually, he walks to the captain and punches him right in the shoulder. The captain glares up at him, but Quruque only grins. He shifts into a fighting stance, faking a few jabs. Ren watches him warily as he shadowboxes; then, abruptly, Quruque throws a real punch at the captain’s bad side. Ren explodes into motion; he catches the fist with a growl and diverts it, then launches himself at Quruque. The men grapple with a slap of muscle. The sergeants still seated all roar with approval, banging their bottles on the tabletop. Oushar calls out something in a mocking tone and Trugenne shouts advice. Rey stiffens, looking uncertainly between the fighting men and their eager audience. 

_Is this_ normal? she wonders, disgusted and enthralled. 

Even as she watches, the captain rears back and punches Quruque in the jaw. While the sergeant wobbles, Ren grabs him and spins him, pinning one muscled forearm across the man’s throat. Oushar perks up in his seat and calls:

“ _Un!...Deux!...”_

The other sergeants join in.

“ _Trois!_ ... _Quatre!...Cinq!”_

On the last word, the captain lets go. Quruque goes limp and staggers away from him, but he turns back laughing, gesturing at his throat and speaking swiftly. Ren strolls back to the table as though nothing has happened; he picks up both of their bottles by the neck with one hand. Quruque takes his bottle when the captain extends it, and the two soldiers clink their oversized glasses together before drinking deeply. The captain wipes his lips with the back of his hand and slams the bottle back down on the table.

_“_ Who’s next? _”_ he snarls, rolling his shoulders.

They all take a turn, as it turns out. The hour grows later, the bottles grow lighter, and a fresh collection of bruises are formed. Every fight, the captain comes out the victor: he hits harder than Oushar, lasts longer than Cardeaux, moves faster than Trugenne, is more vicious than Appleque. Rey finds herself involuntarily thrilled, creeping closer and closer to the informal fighting ring. As far as she can tell, it’s not that the captain is unbeatable; it’s just that he adapts far more quickly to his opponents than they do to him. That, and he’s utterly reckless while fighting, taking terrible blows to his ribs and his face and coming up snarling for more. The harder he’s hit, the more perversely cheerful he seems once the fighting is over.

No doubt the scotch is helping him manage the pain, since the combatants have shared a drink after each round. The captain’s moves become sloppy, more feral. The sergeants’ eyes haze over with whiskey as they shout from the table, again and again: _Un! Deux! Trois!..._

Finally, they start fighting the captain in pairs. Ren holds up doggedly for a couple of rounds, but eventually Quruque gets _his_ arm around his neck. They’re down in the hard dirt, Quruque behind the captain while Appleque holds Ren’s legs. The captain thrashes wildly, but the sergeants have already started their count:

_Un!...Deux!…_

Rey is leaning forward, spellbound by the struggle. She’s heard the count enough times now that she unconsciously echoes the unfamiliar words. Perhaps her voice is distinctive; the captain’s good eye turns towards her. 

_Trois!..._

His body goes limp as he stares; the sergeants instinctively loosen their grasp.

_Quatre!…Ci-_

Like an animal, Ren sinks his teeth into Quruque’s strangling arm.

Quruque yelps with pain as the captain bites down. While Appleque watches, hands loose with surprise, Ren releases the arm and twists his body away so sharply, Rey winces. Now free, Ren rolls onto his feet a short distance away. He hunches there, fists up, and grins savagely.

“I yield,” Quruque snaps, cradling his bitten arm. Appleque nods in agreement, clearly unwilling to risk his own limbs through further fighting.

The captain’s face falls into a scowl, like he’s been denied prey. Then the feral gleam fades from his good eye; he straightens and seems to come back to himself. Rey tears her eyes off him and steps quickly towards Quruque instead. The sergeant apprehensively peels his sleeve back to look down at his forearm while the others gather. 

“Johnson.” 

The word floats through Rey; she’s still focused on Quruque. The man curses as he uncovers a perfectly semi-circular line of reddened flesh...but at least the skin isn’t broken.

“ _Johnson.”_

Rey jerks her head up. The captain is frowning at her, still standing away from the ring. Still breathing hard, he jerks his chin towards his bottle that stands on the table, three quarters full. Dutifully, Rey goes to pick it up and walks over to him. She holds it up at a distance, reluctant to come near. Ren grabs the bottle by the neck and starts drinking.

“They almost got you,” Rey remarks, watching him.

His lips break away from the bottle; he lowers it. “Almost.”

Rey reaches to take the scotch back, but he tightens his hold on its neck.

“Have a drink,” he says roughly, not looking at her.

Rey pauses, surprised. “I couldn’t,” she says cautiously.

“Have a drink,” he repeats, pushing the scotch out towards her. He glances down at her, then quickly away. “You’re my aide,” he adds gruffly. “My victory’s yours.”

Rey looks down at the bottle and the bruised hand that dwarfs it. She really _shouldn’t_ drink...it’s a risk, and she knows it. She might say or do something that jeopardizes her secret. She might say or do something that sets off the captain. She might say or do...many things, none of them wise. But the bottle before her seems like a peace offering, and Rey realizes she _does_ feel victorious. She’s... _proud_ that her captain won so many rounds.

_Shit_ , Rey thinks dimly as she reaches for the bottle. 

Feeling much like she’s signing a deal with the devil, she grabs the scotch by the swell of its side to avoid the captain’s hand, then brings its mouth up to her own for a drink. She faintly tastes blood and then-

“ _Oh,_ ” Rey coughs, surprised. Above her, the captain huffs sharply, a half-laugh.

“That’s terrible, sir,” Rey croaks out, bending over.

Ren doesn’t answer. Rey forcibly un-squints her eyes from her grimace and looks up; the captain is looking away. She turns in the same direction and sees Dameron, Wexley, and one other man she doesn’t recognize walking up from the main camp.

“I should have known you’d get started without us,” Dameron says chidingly. “And getting your aide stewed as well!” He _tsks_ loudly. Rey stiffens with embarrassment...until Dameron winks at her, softening his words.

“You missed the sparring,” Ren growls; he sounds like he’d still enjoy punching the other captain. He pulls the bottle back out of Rey’s loosened grasp and takes another swig.

“ _Missed_ isn’t the word that I’d use,” Dameron says cheerfully. “I don’t long for a fight and I’m sure that there’s still more to come. It _is_ a card game after all.” He turns towards his companions and addresses Rey. “Private Johnson, you already know Wexley and myself. This is lieutenant Muva, though he goes by Oddy.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Rey says, saluting the lieutenant.

“Oh, none of that,” Dameron says airily, waving her off. “We’re all friends tonight. Except when we play poker,” he adds, leaning forward with a glint in his eyes. “I’m afraid I’m a _killer_ when it comes to poker.”

\---

“Ante up, you coward.”

“I need to think.”

“You’ve been thinking all night!”

“I need to _think_.”

Trugenne folds his arms stubbornly over his chest. To his credit, he _does_ look like he is thinking, but in Dameron’s defense, the sergeant has been thinking for at least five minutes.

“The war will be over at this rate!” groans the captain. His cheeks are flushed and his lips still shine wet from his last drink of scotch. “Let me play this damn straight!”

Trugenne grins suddenly. “Thank you,” he says smugly. He pushes his cards towards the center. “I fold.”

“So do I,” says Wexley.

“So do I.”

Ren checks his cards. “I don’t.”

Dameron looks around, bewildered. “Goddammit,” he mutters. “Did I say that out loud? I, uh, don’t have a straight.”

Ren shoves more cash into the center. “Sure you don’t.”

Rey snorts softly. She’s watching these events from behind Ren’s chair, where she still stands in spite of her aching feet. Dameron did make some noise about letting her sit when they first gathered to play, but Ren cut him off with a stormy expression. Rey is almost relieved; she expects _this_ behavior from Ren, not the casual sharing of liquor that’s continued in tandem with his winning streak. Rey makes sure that she only takes small sips of whiskey, but she’s still feeling pleasantly warm at this point. 

As for the men, they’ve moved well beyond warmth. Their voices swirl in increasingly raucous spirals around the two tables. Appleque’s brought a large pouch of rolling tobacco, and most of the soldiers at this point have either packed their pipes, like Cardeaux, or rolled themselves makeshift cigars, like the captain. The crackling, earthy smell of it weaves through the sharp tang of the whiskey, and together the scents of the party pierce through the usual chill of a midwinter night. 

“Do you fold?” asks the captain. _Her_ captain.

Dameron raises his chin. “No, I don’t,” he says, dropping a stack of bills down to match Ren’s.

“Your funeral.” Ren lays his cards down. Whatever Dameron sees there, he doesn’t like it; the other captain groans and lets his head fall onto the table. Ren, in the meantime, pops his cigar between his back molars and starts dragging the cash in the middle towards himself. His elbow knocks over a bottle, making it spill. Half the table exclaims as the whiskey sloshes over their cards.

“Shit.” Ren snatches the bottle back up from the table with surprising grace, sparing his winnings from the spread of the liquor. “Give me that thing,” he growls over his shoulder at Rey, gesturing up at her neck. 

Rey’s lips press tightly together, but she silently, reluctantly, unknots the kerchief that hides her scarred neck. She drops the cloth into Ren’s waiting hand and he unceremoniously wipes the camp table with it, sluicing the liquid over the edge and onto the frost-dotted earth. Rey’s frown only deepens when Ren shakes out her kerchief...and then pockets it.

“For luck,” Ren says simply, talking around his cigar.

“You’ve already won, sir,” she says stiffly. “I don’t think you need it.”

“ _We_ won,” grunts the captain. He picks up the offending bottle, swirls it to gauge the level of its contents, then holds it out carelessly over his shoulder. “Drink.”

Rey internally sighs, but “Yes, sir,” is what she says out loud. She lifts up the bottle and takes a deep swallow. She’s proud of herself for not gasping again, but she must wince, because Dameron laughs.

“Careful,” the man slurs from across the table. “I hear this stuff will eat straight through a cannon.”

“What does that say about the state of our stomachs?” jokes Oddy.

Quruque slaps his belly. “Cannot eat through the hardtack. Is safe.” 

“I knew those biscuits were good for something,” mutters Poe. He messily gathers the deck, including the soaked cards. “Now _I’m_ dealing this time, t’make sure that this game isn’t _rigged_.”

“You always say it is rigged,” says Cardeaux.

“‘Cause it is.”

Cardeaux raises one bushy eyebrow. “If I lose as badly as you, I would say also that it is rigged.”

Ren huffs a half-laugh and Dameron seems surprised.

“You’re in a good mood,” he says shrewdly. “You fuck a whore lately?”

“Your mother is still indisposed,” Ren retorts, sorting through his winnings. “Worn out from the last time, I expect.”

“A deep knothole, then.”

Ren just shoots him a glare, and Dameron laughs. “Is that how you occupy poor Johnson’s time?” he chides jokingly. “D’you send him out into the woods with a measuring stick?”

Ren crams his wad of bills into his coat pocket. “I have no doubt,” he rumbles deliberately, “that Johnson could find an appropriate hole.” 

Rey freezes halfway through a second swig. She brings the whiskey back down, frowning down at Ren’s head. Then she frowns at his face when he turns to retrieve the bottle. His expression is cool when he looks up at her, though: nothing untoward.

“What do you say?” Dameron calls with a laugh. “Could you find him a hole?”

Rey knows logically that she might regret this. But right now, liquor burning hot along her tongue, she squares her jaw slightly. 

“Depends, sir,” Rey says, glaring down at her captain. “On if he wants a bush or a good stiff tree.” 

Wexley spits his drink across the table. The sergeants who best understand English erupt into laughter, and Dameron nearly falls out of his chair.

“Your aide has to join us more often,” he hoots, wiping away a tear.

Ren doesn’t reply; his expression seems blank. His eyes, though, slightly lidded from liquor, flicker over Rey’s face. 

“ _Sit_ ,” he says, silky.

Rey swallows and nods, her brief courage fading. She glances to the side, then retreats gratefully towards the single unoccupied crate a short distance away. She takes a seat on its chafed wooden top and lets out a small sigh of relief for her feet.

“No,” Ren says flatly, and Rey looks at him. “I said _sit.”_

He points at the dirt at his feet.

For a moment, Rey struggles to make out his meaning. She looks at the cold ground and pictures sitting there, nearly against his knee. A hot flood of anger and...something else, something as sharp as the liquor...rushes through her belly, making her blood spark. She looks back up at Ren with an outraged expression that he returns calmly.

“Move the crate,” Ren grates out, and turns back to the game.

_Oh._ Of course he…he means she should sit by the table.

Rey stands hastily. She curses the whiskey for flushing her cheeks as she picks up the crate and walks it to the spot where the captain had pointed. Trugenne, on her right, smiles broadly at her and shifts to make room. Ren ignores her, to her left.

Rey takes a deep breath, mentally steeling herself. She sits down on the crate and hunches in her shoulders. The mountainous men on either side of her feel terribly close, like thick walls of a cell. Her heart flutters nervously within her chest, but she stares down at the grain of the wood table and breathes, until one breath comes along that feels normal again. The looming heat of the mens’ bodies dwindles, retreating, until she can rationally grasp the situation as it actually is: two men are seated at least two feet distant from her. 

Rey sighs in relief. It takes her another long moment before she dares to glance up at the captain. He’s looking at her with his lone, brown-gold eye.

“Drink,” he says, shoving the whiskey at her.

“Finally!” shouts Dameron obliviously. “All the players are seated!” Then he frowns at Rey. “You are playing, correct?”

Rey licks her lips after her drink; her mouth buzzes, but she feels more relaxed. “I don’t know how to play.”

Ren scoffs at her side. “And you say you weren’t raised in a church,” he mutters.

Rey shoots him a dark look. “I know a _little,_ ” she says stiffly.

“He plays with me,” Ren says shortly to Dameron. The other captain shrugs and deals three cards face up on the table.

Ren glances at Rey, then frowns down at his cards where they’re lying face down. With a swift, careless motion, he pushes them towards her.

“Tell me what I have,” he demands.

Rey gamely reaches out to touch the worn cards. She knows enough to lift only the corner; there’s a jack and a king and she opens her mouth to reply, but a sharp warning glance from the captain stops her. Swallowing, Rey leans a bit closer to him and cups a hand over her mouth.

“Jack of diamonds, king of clubs,” she says softly.

Ren grunts. “What’s the best hand I can get?”

Rey resigns herself to this impromptu lesson, grateful that it’s not overtly a punishment. She glances at the spread of three cards on the table: jack of clubs, nine of clubs, two of spades. She pulls a bit closer. “Four of a kind?” she guesses, drawing on what little she knows.

Ren shakes his head, bringing one huge hand up to shield over his lips. He doesn’t look at Rey, but he tilts his head towards her. His rough voice is low as he says, “A straight flush would be best. How would I make it?”

Rey wracks her brain for the knowledge she’s gathered from watching their games. “If he deals…” she leans in closer and lowers her voice, her eyes trained on the table “...the ten and queen of clubs. Right, sir?”

“Mm.”

The deep sound of assent feels like it vibrates Rey’s skin. She glances at Ren and his brown eye is now fixed on her, so much closer than before. Rey startles and pulls back, looking down at her lap. “You might get it, sir.”

Ren shrugs loosely. “Doesn’t matter what cards you have,” he says loosely, settling his cigar. “It matters what they _think_ you have. You can win on a bluff.” He aims his eye at her again, his voice quiet. “Can you bluff, private?”

Rey looks back at him, now at a safer distance. His left side is his “good” side; without all the scarring to distract her, she can take in the details of his lean, restless face. The way that his mustache doesn’t quite meet his beard. The way that his skin faintly creases around his dark circles. The way that his eye glints red gold in direct firelight.

_I can see you,_ she thinks to herself. _But you still can’t see me._

“I can bluff,” she says firmly.

\---

A couple games later, the talk turns towards Boston and the training they did there. Rey listens eagerly, trying to picture the strange, Northern city just from their description. The soldiers of Company B are particularly poetic when it comes to Boston; they’re all born and bred there, and even worked in the same factory before the war. 

“Did _you_ work in a factory?” Rey murmurs, leaning in towards her captain.

“No,” Ren grunts, focused on shuffling the deck. It’s taking an awful lot of concentration; his motor skills have noticeably decreased. 

“...So you’ll have to carry my corpse back to Boston,” Dameron finishes dramatically, clapping Wexley on the back. “You promise?”

“Promise, sir,” Wexley says with what looks like real tears in his eyes.

“Good lad,” Dameron mumbles. He tries to clap him on the back once again and misses.

Ren clicks his tongue dismissively, drawing Dameron’s eye.

“What?” he says, swinging his head towards Ren.

“Boston smells like fish heads and fresh shit,” growls the captain, still intent on his cards. “It’s a fucking backwater.”

Dameron’s eyes go wide. He leans back on his crate and lets loose a long whistle. “Bold words, Dutchman,” he says. “For a man from New Jersey to call Boston a _backwater_...”

Rey perks up with interest. At her side, Ren gives Dameron an unimpressed glance. 

“Manhattan,” he corrects.

Dameron blows air past his lips, waving him off. “Just because you can _see_ it doesn’t mean you _live_ there.”

Rey takes a drink of the whiskey, angling her head so she can still watch the conversation. Meanwhile, the captain throws his badly shuffled deck towards Appleque, scattering cards. He sits back and sucks on his cigar.

“You can be in Manhattan from Staten Island in just over an hour,” Ren grumbles. He watches the smoke spiral out of his mouth. “That’s better than Boston to Cambridge, most days.”

“You ever seen one of those steamships?” Oddy interjects. His face is bright with interest. “I heard the navy’s been using them along the rivers.”

“Fastest ships on the water,” Wexley agrees.

Ren sucks his teeth scornfully. “I know a captain,” he says, slurring somewhat, “who beat one of those steamships in a sailing ship.”

Dameron scoffs. “To the bottom, maybe.”

Ren shakes his head. “From Staten Island to Manhattan.”

Dameron laughs. “That’s impossible,” he says. “What kind of ship was he sailing?”

“A periauger.”

“ _A periauger?”_ Dameron’s mouth gapes. “That’s a fucking canoe! The odds of one of those winning-”

Because Rey is watching, she sees it: Ren’s mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile. 

“Don’t tell this captain the odds,” he says softly.

“I don’t believe you,” Dameron declares. Then, just as swiftly, “How’d he do it?”

Ren’s expression shifts; his scowl drops back into place. “It’s a secret,” he says shortly. “Go try and find out the next time you’re in New York.”

Dameron scoffs once again, but doesn’t press the issue. The conversation moves on, but Rey still watches the captain from the corner of her eye. His mood is hard to read as he stares through the cards he’s been dealt. Then she sees it turn, like a spinning coin, towards melancholy. He stands up abruptly, barely catching himself on the table edge as he sways badly.

“I’m out for the round,” he says, frowning. When Oushar starts to complain in thick French, Ren waves him off and looks down at Rey.

“He’ll play for me,” he says.

Rey’s eyes widen. “I’m still learning the rules, sir,” she protests.

“So learn.” 

The captain pulls off his own cap and carelessly slaps it down onto Rey’s head. He yanks the bill down so it covers her ears and then grunts, satisfied. Rey glowers back up at him from under the brim, but he simply ignores her baleful expression.

“Don’t lose all my money,” he rumbles. Then he turns and wanders off like a drunken ghost into the woods.

Despite her initial nervousness, it turns out that Rey isn’t half bad at poker. She doesn’t know all of the rules, but her facial expression can be hard as granite, so she bluffs her way through a couple of rounds. She’s sliding a handful of cash towards herself when the captain eventually reappears from the forest.

“He’s killing us,” Dameron groans as soon as he sees Ren.

Ren just grunts, but he seems pleased to hear it. He sits down heavily in the chair next to Rey and leans in for their bottle. Rey glances at him; he seems a little more settled after his long walk, aside from a slightly hardened set to his face. As the whiskey tilts up, Rey is shocked to see that they’re almost two thirds through it.

“Better, sir?” she asks softly.

“Never.”

Her brow creases. “Never better?”

He looks at her flatly. “What do you think?”

Trugenne flicks a card towards Ren’s hand, drawing down his attention. The captain shakes his head. He slides the card over to rest in front of Rey, the faint heat of his arm stretching out near her chest. Then he leans back again, crossing his arms over his stomach.

“You tell me,” he says, looking at Rey, “what’s our move.”

  
  


\---

  
  


Cardeaux is packing his pipe when Appleque’s foot subtly nudges his. The sergeant glances up and quirks a single eyebrow in question; Appleque flicks his eyes pointedly to the side.

Casually, Cardeaux settles back on the log bench, turning his head as he does. In the direction his friend had been looking, Kylo Ren and his aide are consulting their shared cards. They’re arguing, more like; the captain is peering at the two cards they have in the hole and gesticulating angrily at the three in the middle. Johnson’s lips are pursed tight in annoyance, only parting to hiss a rebuttal. What’s striking, however, is that their faces hover mere inches apart. 

Kylo leans in, muttering low so the others can’t hear it. Johnson’s head tilts to the side to receive his whispered argument, and to Cardeaux’s keen eye, the aide’s cheeks seem to flush. As Kylo is talking, his gaze flickers down to the blush, and then, quickly, away.

Cardeaux raises both eyebrows.

_“Interesting, no?”_ Appleque says, speaking in their patois.

Cardeaux grunts, turning back to his pipe thoughtfully. 

When Johnson first arrived, the sergeants had placed bets. The colonel had been sending Kylo new aides for some months, but Kylo, inevitably, ripped them to shreds. Some lasted a few weeks, but most fled in days. Johnson, on the other hand, is going on six weeks and still gaining traction. The somber recruit has been a most challenging, contradictory puzzle: polite, but with eyes hard as steel, and a face that burns fiercely with anger when others aren't looking...though Cardeaux always looks.

“ _He may be good for him,”_ Appleque suggests.

Cardeaux nods, but otherwise doesn’t answer. There’s hope in his friend’s voice, but it’s tinged with old pain. Their captain, their comrade, their brother in arms...he is full of cracks. The cracks wax and wane like gaps in a wood floor, yawning closer to ruin with every new battle. Cardeaux still remembers last summer, when Kylo sat at his camp table, his clothes spattered in gore, and let his cigar burn right down to his knuckles. The captain still had both his eyes then; both were dead in his face. 

That time had been nothing compared to December. December, when Cardeaux had banned the other sergeants from seeing their wounded captain. December, when Cardeaux had guarded his bedside alone, ensuring the ropes were tied tight around the captain’s limbs, trying to ignore the man’s-

“ _Yes, he may be,”_ Cardeaux says, shaking off the remembrance. Now he eyes the captain, his freshly cleaned face. He watches Ren’s lithe aide get up from the table to fetch a new bottle, watches how Kylo watches. Johnson stumbles slightly on the way to restock, but recovers with poise. Always poised, that one. Always guarded. _Too_ guarded.

Cardeaux doesn’t blame her.

_“Yes,”_ repeats the sergeant, sucking on his pipe. _He may be, for her._

  
  


\--- 

  
  


“I’m not lending you more,” Wexley protests. He’s slumped in his seat, looking at Oushar in drunken outrage. 

“ _Un peu?_ ” asks the sergeant hopefully. He’s out of cash and giving the aide his best innocent act.

“Ask your captain,” grumbles Wexley.

“You already owe me twenty,” slurs the captain, not looking up.

Rey sits at Ren’s side, elbows propped on the table. Her cheeks feel hot where they rest in her palms, but she feels lighthearted for the first time in months. She’s sitting, her feet don’t feel sore anymore, and the ease of her companions is wearing off on her. It’s easy, now, to take sips of the whiskey. It’s easy to sit caged between two huge men. It’s easy- perhaps strangely easy- to lean in towards the captain and let her lips brush by his ear.

Rey shivers unconsciously, shifting her legs. She presses the lip of the bottle to hers and blows a low hoot across its rounded top.

“Don’t do that,” Ren mumbles.

Rey glances at him, the rim denting her lips. She sees that he’s watching her mouth and pulls back with a blush, only slightly delayed. “Sorry, sir,” she says, having a hard time with the “s”’s. She wipes off the mouth of the bottle with her less dirty sleeve.

“ _Juste une fois de plus…”_ Oushar protests.

The captain growls, dragging his good eye off of Rey. He snarls something in French and Oushar snaps right back. Ren slams his hand down on the table and starts to say more, but Oushar talks right over him, raising his volume to drown out the captain.

“Fellas,” appeals Oddy; he’s promptly ignored.

In a matter of seconds, the captain and Oushar are both standing and bellowing at the top of their lungs, rattling French off like bullets while the others stare. Both men are deadly intent...and utterly incoherent. It strikes Rey as ridiculous, and she bites her lip trying to hold in a laugh. Above her, without missing a beat, the captain switches from cursing in French to some guttural language that Rey’s never heard. Oushar keeps on going in French, either too drunk or too angry to care, or some mixture of both. Rey’s eyes go wide and she covers her mouth.

“They’re not even…” Wexley says, dazed.

Dameron’s mouth is agape. “Does anyone,” he slurs helplessly, “speak _English_ here?" 

A laugh bursts from Rey’s lips like a small explosion. It feels like a release: a wild, bright, happy sound. She holds her face in her hands as she giggles, trying to muffle the aftershocks under her palm and pressing her own smile. When she looks up, she’s still grinning, and now the shocked looks are all turned towards her. Hastily, Rey buries her lower face under her hand; she knows her dimples look childish when she’s grinning like this. 

“What,” she says, muffled.

Ren and Oushar have stopped fighting. The captain stares down at her, his mouth still open as if to argue.

“You think that’s funny?” he says, a little loose on the words.

“No, sir,” Rey mumbles contritely, though she ruins the act by snort-laughing. She ducks her head down, but the captain’s still looking.

“No?” He points at the cards on the table, the last winning hand. “What’s that called, private?”

Rey shakes her head quickly, biting on her lip. “Royal flush,” she mutters.

Ren bends closer. “A what?”

“Royal flush,” Rey says louder, this time feeling annoyed.

Ren raises his eyebrows. “ _Rahhwl fluhsh_ ,” he says dryly, mocking her Southern accent. He leans down to eye level. “Bobby _Lee_ wouldn’t know what you’re saying right now.”

Rey tilts her head to look back at him, scowling. Her accent _may_ be a bit stronger from drinking. She opens her mouth to snap back a retort...when she sees that his good eye is glinting with humor.

Rey shuts her mouth. She realizes two things in that moment. The first is that Kylo Ren, dread Union captain, is messing with her. The second is that Kylo’s good side, when tinged with amusement, is almost attractive.

“I’ll...be back,” Rey says sharply, looking away. She gets up unsteadily off of her crate and walks out towards the woods, not daring to turn back.

  
  


\---

  
  


Rey blindly makes her way through the woods towards the latrine. There isn’t much moonlight to go by, and she stumbles over jutting tree roots more than one time. In her drunken state, it’s also a risk that she’ll fall _into_ the latrine, but she luckily spots the shovel planted upright beside it before that can happen.

Rey scans the woods, though her vision jumps strangely. She debates moving further out into the woods for her piss, but the soldiers are all occupied with a new game, and likely won’t follow. Still, she backs up against one of the trees while she fumbles with her belt, ready to fall into her usual shielding squat. She’s got the belt unclasped and her buttons undone when a voice startles her from the woods.

“‘S dark out here,” a man’s deep voice rumbles. “You should’ve brought a lamp.”

Rey’s hands freeze on her pants as captain Ren emerges from the still forest. She watches him warily, unsure if he’s followed her for some dark purpose, but she needn’t have worried; Ren casually undoes his belt as he steps towards the latrine. He sways at the edge of it, directly across from her, and _far_ too close.

“What’re you waiting for,” he grumbles, starting to fish in his pants to bring his cock out.

Rey’s cheeks burn from both mortification and liquor as she watches his wandering hand. “I- I can’t go with you watching,” she fumbles.

Ren stops what he’s doing and looks up at her, his hand still down his pants. He swings his head to look out at the stark empty woods to their left, and then to their right. He says “Jesus Christ” under his breath and creakily turns, stepping heavily towards a tree until his forehead bumps into it, his back towards her.

“ _Better?”_ he bites out.

Rey nods, realizes that he can’t see her, then calls out thinly, “Yes.” 

Rey eyes his back warily, listening to the rustling of his hands. She has mere seconds to make a momentous decision, and the liquor is gumming the works of her brain. Her bladder strains urgently and _that_ , not her brain, is what makes her decision. Rey finally, hastily gives in; with one violent gesture, she shoves her pants down and squats low, pulling the crotch of her trousers away from herself. Still nervously watching Ren’s back, Rey sends up a quick prayer to whoever’s listening and starts pissing as hard as she can.

Rey’s had a bit much to drink; her piss audibly slaps the hard ground and Ren snorts, his back still facing her as he does his own business. The sheer nerve, the audacity of what she’s doing hits Rey in a semi-hysterical wave; the liquor translates her fear to a taut, half-crazed grin. She’s so close, so close to being exposed…

As soon as the stream stops, Rey wipes a swift handful of snow over herself, lets it fall to the earth, and then tugs up her trousers. _Safe,_ she thinks, smiling. Her secret is still _safe._ Rey swallows her smile before it can become laughter; she thinks she’d never stop.

“Are you done?” slurs the captain, still facing his tree. “Niagara dried up?”

“Yes, sir,” Rey says obediently, now refastening her belt. Her fingers are trembling slightly, as though her body is frightened by what she just did, even if her dulled mind is too drunk to appreciate it. 

“Thank you,” she adds, for something to say. She brushes her hands down her front, making sure she’s in order, before turning around. “And, uh...for teaching me poker.”

Ren sways, stepping back from the tree. “You can bluff,” he says simply.

“I told you.”

“You did.” Ren turns around in an unsteady arc. He comes to a stop in a small patch of moonlight and looks at her, his face both flushed and inscrutable.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” he says thickly.

Rey’s brow furrows. “A secret, sir?”

“Come here.”

His command rings out sharp in the silence. Moonlight shines off Ren’s eyes, both black and gray. They loom closer as Rey steps towards him, feeling much like she’s floating. She comes to a halt a safe distance away, more than an arm’s length from the captain.

“What’s the secret,” she asks, and her voice comes out hushed.

“The Falcon,” he says.

“The falcon?”

“A bird for a bird,” he says, blurry from drink. “Secret for a secret.”

Rey blinks. She’s too absorbed by this strange exchange to debate it. She steps closer and nods, as though that had made sense. “What’s the secret?”

Ren stares down at her and wets his lips. “The Falcon’s the periauger,” he mumbles. “The one that beat the steamship.” 

“Never heard of it, sir,” Rey says truthfully.

He nods slightly. “The captain of the Falcon,” he says quietly- so quietly, that Rey unconsciously takes another step nearer, “beat the steamship by sabotaging the engine. He snuck on board the night before the race. Took his son as a lookout. They nearly got caught, but they didn’t.”

“How do you know?” Rey asks in a near-whisper.

He shakes his head slightly and sways. “‘Nother secret.”

Rey looks up into his scarred face. It should be alarming, standing this close to him, but here in the darkness his presence is muted. He leans in a little, looking down at her.

“What about you, little bird,” he says, voice just as low. “Do you have any secrets?”

Rey inhales sharply, her breath stumbling in her chest. “It’s- it’s getting late,” she says, frightened. “Are the men leaving soon?” 

The captain’s lips tilt. “You’re the captain, you tell me.”

Rey pauses, confusion cutting through her fear. Ren nods his chin, looking up at the hat that Rey’s wearing.

“Oh,” Rey says, eyes wide. She startles and swipes the cap off of her head; it’s the captain’s kepi he had put on her earlier.

“Sorry,” she says, flustered. Her heartbeat thumps noticeably within her chest, and her fingers shake slightly. She wishes she were sober.

The captain tilts his head forward and waits.

Rey hesitates for a moment. Heartbeat still pounding, she takes a step forward and raises the cap. Gingerly, half-expecting a trap, Rey places the kepi gently on Ren’s head. When the captain doesn’t retreat right away, she relaxes somewhat and pulls it down slightly, settling it into place. Absently, she strokes some of his long hair away from his face. Her fingertips linger and he leans into them with a small, low-pitched sound. They’re standing quite close now.

“The question you asked earlier,” he says faintly. At least, it sounds faint- Rey’s mind is a bit fuzzy. She runs her hand over his hair once again, soothing both the strands and herself.

“Mhm?”

“The tree or the bush.”

“Yes?”

He turns his face slightly, closer to her wandering fingers. “What would be your answer?”

“Hmm?” Rey pauses, her hand lifting slightly away from his head. In the darkness, the captain raises his chin and looks down at her; he’s shockingly close. His good eye flits between hers. Even through her haze, and through _his,_ Rey can tell that his words are a little more measured, a little more careful than she’s ever heard them.

“What would you prefer,” he asks, his voice low. “The tree or the bush?”

Rey pauses, trying to parse his question between heartbeats. She tilts her head suddenly in realization.

“What was _your_ answer?”

He’d never answered.

The two of them, captain and aide, look at one another in silence, hovering close enough that Rey could touch him again if she wanted. If he wanted. But-

“Captain!” a jolly voice booms from the woods.

The two of them turn away sharply, so fast that Rey sways. Quruque stumbles into the small clearing, only to fall promptly over a tree root.

“Captain!” he exclaims once again, just as cheerily. He smiles up from ground with a broad, shitfaced grin.

“I’ll head back,” Rey says swiftly. She doesn’t look to Ren for confirmation, just starts stumbling back towards the faint sound of voices. Her head is unpleasantly spinning, as much from their conversation as the liquor.

  
  


\---

  
  


They’re all worse for wear at the table by now. Appleque is practically flinging the cards as he deals. Rey sways in her seat, her eyes drooping shut. Captain Ren has his cheek pillowed on his crossed arms on the table and both his eyes closed. Dameron, of course, is convinced that he’s being cheated.

“Who let him be dealer?” he slurs in outrage, jabbing his finger at Appleque. “This...this _swindler_!”

“ _Desolee_ ,” shrugs the sergeant. Then, more thickly: “Mistake.”

“Mistake my ass,” Dameron snaps back. His eyes are bleary with liquor and narrowed with ire. “Should of figured a damn _Mainer_ lumberjack wouldn’t know how t’ count.”

Appleque glares back at him, and the other sergeants bristle around the table.

“You were part of us, you know that?” Dameron spits out, his face red. “Massachusetts territory.”

“Poe,” Ren groans in warning, his eyes still closed.

“We didn’t need you,” Dameron goes on, unheeding. Appleque stands up from the table and Ren cracks an eye open. “Because the whole state of Maine is some _red_ -necked _, up-_ jumped, _frog_ -loving-”

Ren sits up with a sigh. He blearily grabs Rey by the back of her jacket and leans his torso away from the table, pulling her with him. Rey mumbles in confusion.

“-fuckin’... _treehouse province!_ ”

With a roar, Appleque lunges to grab Dameron by the neck. The table that both Rey and Ren were so recently leaning against goes flying as the five Mainer sergeants plunge through it in a great crash of wood, glass, and bodies. Ren sighs in disgust as snow flies and the others from Company B join the fray.

“And me with two aces,” he mutters, kicking his cards in the dirt. 

Letting go of Rey’s jacket, the captain lurches up to his feet. He leans forward slightly, arms behind his back as he attempts to drag off his coat by the sleeves. 

“Take this,” he says thickly around his cigar. Rey looks up at him, nonplussed, and sees that he’s pushed the cigar to the edge of his teeth. He jerks his chin at her. “Take it.”

Rey dutifully reaches for the cigar. She also outstretches her hands to take his coat, but the captain drops _that_ unceremoniously into the dirt. Then he looks around, gauging the fistfights around him. With a disinterested air, he walks over to Oddy and Cardeaux, and promptly drops onto the men like a drunk thunderbolt.

Rey rubs her eyes, then squints out at the scene. She’s the only one standing amidst all the chaos. Unthinkingly, she brings the captain’s cigar to her lips. She shifts it between her back molars, idly running her tongue along the wetted end. She can taste blood again and more whiskey, of course.

Rey smiles to herself.

  
  


\---

  
  


Some minutes later, Rey is watching the soldiers of Company B limp back down the main path. The aide is bone-tired, and feels like her stomach and brain are looping in opposing circles. She clutches a mostly-full bottle of scotch in one hand.

“Good game,” yawns Appleque, standing at her side. He sports a black eye and a broad, sleepy smile.

“Good game,” Rey agrees. She turns and sees the other four sergeants supporting Trugenne’s massive weight; the new father is passed out from some combination of booze and a stiff table leg to the head.

“ _Bonne nuit_ ,” Appleque says to her swiftly before jogging over to help them.

“ _Bonne nuit_ ,” Rey mindlessly echoes. She watches the sergeants as they wrestle Trugenne down the path, then turns back to the campsite and her own particular problem.

Rey steps heavily through the wreckage of chairs, cards, and overturned tables towards Kylo Ren, her bottle of whiskey clamped tight under one arm. She comes to a swaying stop over the captain, boots scuffing to a halt on either side of his knee. He groans on the ground, sliding the back of his arm off his face so he can squint up at her.

“That’s my fucking cigar,” Ren says faintly, staring up at Rey’s mouth.

Rey takes a long, leisurely drag from the cigar in question, still looking down at the captain. Then she slowly squats down and, with drunken precision, pulls the cigar from her own mouth and plants it down carefully between his lips. He just looks back at her for a long moment, then closes his lips around it. 

Rey exhales comfortably and pulls her hand back to rest atop her thigh. She looks across the ruins, still crouching above him. “You made a mess,” she remarks.

“S’a card game,” Ren slurs, his shoulders barely shrugging. “Next one’s at Dameron’s. Poor bastard,” he groans, starting to sit up. He can’t, though, because Rey’s in his way. Abruptly, the captain’s gaze sharpens. Ren snaps his thighs shut, trapping Rey’s leg between them. Rey yelps as Ren violently swivels his hips to the right, effectively slamming Rey onto the ground.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Rey sputters as the bottle of whiskey sloshes onto her shirt. Ren chuckles nastily, unclenching his thighs to release her. He drops his legs flat with an undignified _thump_ while Rey struggles to upright the bottle. She instinctively feels for her neck, then drops her hand when it comes up empty.

“My kerchief,” she says dazedly. Ren is rolling away from her onto his hands and knees. Rey reaches out towards him, annoyed. “I need my kerchief.”

“ _I_ need it,” he jeers.

“It’s _my_ kerchief,” Rey protests. She rolls over and reaches again, trying to swipe the cloth out of Ren’s pocket. He dodges her by falling over in the opposite direction.

“Come get it,” he taunts, hair askew, his eyes glittering.

“Just _give_ it to me,” Rey growls, lurching forward. Ren skitters back on his hands and feet, smirking crookedly. His eyes are aglow with the same eager light as when he’s fighting his sergeants, as though this is a _game_. Rey huffs in despair, realizing this confounding, strange, and murderous man will never relinquish her kerchief without a real fight.

“Fine,” she spits out, her thoughts fuzzy with ire. “I’ll get a new one from the sergeants.” With terrible effort, she pushes herself up to a stand. Ren’s brow creases, watching her rise.

“The sergeants?” he repeats.

“And I’ll _sleep_ there,” Rey adds, feeling vicious. Ren’s expression darkens, but she’s already turning away.

“Wait-” She hears scrambling behind her.

“There are _five_ of them,” Rey slurs nonsensically, stumbling over a table leg. “They’ll keep me warm.”

“What about me,” growls the captain- too close. His body collides into hers as he trips over the table leg, too. He reaches out to steady himself and-

They freeze. 

Rey’s eyes widen. 

Ren’s hands have grabbed onto her hips- although lightly. His fingers are stiff, like he, too, is surprised. Their bodies connect thigh to thigh, back to chest. A crippling, rippling, dark wave of heat rolls right up through Rey’s gut and she wavers. He wavers. An observer might see them both sway, as though two trees blown by the same wind.

Rey blinks slowly. Time hangs suspended, as heavy as fruit. Then Ren’s fingers curl cautiously onto Rey’s hips. He bows his head closer, repeats in a hushed voice: “What about me, little bird?”

Rey’s legs weaken; her eyelids droop shut. Ren drops his lips lower, towards her bare neck. “I want to be warm,” he murmurs, his voice a rough ghost on her skin. 

There are no warning bells in Rey’s mind, no crawling sensation. There’s just the captain behind her, his heat warm on her back, and a tight, piercing ache from between her legs _._ Her head falls to thud against his chest. Ren’s hands move, slowly, _so_ slowly, forward. They slide over her hip bones like ten arcing tunnels, smoothing towards her-

Rey’s eyes snap open.

-her cock. _Which she doesn’t have._

With a gasp, Rey rips herself out of Ren’s grasp. She stumbles forward, then spins around, backing away even further. The captain sways backwards from her, his mouth parted and caught between words. He looks at a loss; his gaze flickers half-lidded. He drags a hand through his long hair, both confusion and- fear?- in his eyes. 

The two stare at each other.

“I have to piss,” Rey blurts. She can’t imagine this conversation, can’t even begin to attempt it right now. Her heart feels like it’s beating right up in her throat.

Ren shuts his mouth and nods, clearing attempting to master himself. “You’ll come back?” he asks gruffly. The words and muffled sentiment sound strange in his mouth.

“I will,” Rey says hastily. She just needs a moment. She just needs _several_ moments. “I just have to...piss. Like I said.”

Ren’s fractured expression takes another few heartbeats to settle. He nods brusquely and turns, moving shakily off towards their hut. Rey, for her part, beats a hasty retreat towards the woods. She welcomes its sheltering shadows. 

“God _damn it_ ,” she whispers blurrily, again and again as she moves through the trees. “God damn it, god _damn you, god...”_

She finds a hollow at the base of a tree and sits down, nearly falling. She buries her head in her arms both for warmth and to choke out the shame and confusion that drown her. 

_It must be the liquor_ , she keeps repeating. _It’s only the liquor._

Still, Rey waits a long time- long enough for her toes go numb in her boots- before rising up from the tree once again. She makes her way back to the hut in weaving circles, like a hunter closing warily on dangerous prey. Even when she’s within sight of the hut’s wooden walls, Rey remains at a distance. She can see her own breath in the air and her temples are throbbing, but she doesn’t creep forward until she is _certain_ she hears the faint snores of the captain.

Inside the hut, it is both cold and dark. The captain is sprawled on his belly, loudly snoring, but Rey still moves softly. She pulls her blankets up to her chin and settles down for the night, trying not to think. 

  
She does _not_ look at the captain. She does _not_ think of him. She does nothing...nothing at all except sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! I hope this chapter helped make up for my extended absence. Writing this whole thing felt kind of like a fever dream, one full of latent horniness and tropes. I *really* wanted to get all these little card game moments in, and I hope that having so many didn't decrease their individual impact. There are also all these little plot points (Cardeaux knowing, the Plutt flashback, etc.) that kind of had to happen now or else there wouldn't be build up for later. Can you believe that originally this and "The Mail" were all going to be one chapter?? 
> 
> Anyway, I had a lot of fun writing dialogue for the sergeants, Poe, and the rest of the gang. I was particularly glad to include Cardeaux's (unplanned!) moments here defending Rey and thinking on his captain. I don't think there will be any other perspectives peeking in throughout the text, but I may be proven wrong.
> 
> The next chapter should come out in a more timely manner, but if you want to stay posted, follow me on Twitter @doorkeeper91. I share snippets of work, progress updates, and of course all the beautiful fan art people have created. @ZaraArdis is always on point with the [edits](https://twitter.com/ZaraArdis/status/1352610140751417344), also @ladyofporgs with the [edits](https://twitter.com/ladyofporgs/status/1355357184750567426), @starsarefire1 drew a couple of beautiful original works of [Ren](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Es9U_wlXYAIaTFw?format=jpg&name=large) and [Rey](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EtBp8ChXMAAhMkx?format=jpg&name=large), and I commissioned @AudreyEstok for [this scene](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/Epx5w6hXcAIhZgs?format=jpg&name=4096x4096) from chapter 7! I'm seriously awed by the response to this fic, so THANK YOU for the kudos and commentary <3 <3
> 
> See you next time!
> 
> FRENCH
> 
> “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” = What is that?  
> “Un cadeau pour ton cul, il a déjà dit” = A gift for your ass, he already said.  
> “Tres bien!” = very good  
> “Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq” = 1,2,3,4,5  
> “Un peu” = a little  
> “Juste une fois de plus” = Just one more time  
> "Bonne nuit" = good night
> 
> REFERENCES
> 
> -General [J.E. Johnston](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Army_of_Northern_Virginia#Command_under_General_J._E._Johnston) was the second general of the confederate army of Northern Virginia, which is best known for its fourth and final general, Robert E. Lee. At the time of Rey’s flashback, Johnston is the general, but at the time of her enlistment, Lee is. Lee is also the “Bobby Lee” that captain Ren refers to concerning her accent.
> 
> -I’m a Mainer so I was just jokingly shitting on my home state via Poe. It *is* true, though, that Maine used to be a province of Massachusetts. Maine was lobbying for statehood as early as the 1780s, but it didn’t become official until 1819...well within living memory during the civil war, and therefore still a sore subject and not the best thing to mention to five drunken lumberjacks.
> 
> -About the whole Staten Island/boat race reference! So basically last fall I read a biography on Cornelius Vanderbilt and decided to borrow his childhood for Kylo (up to you to decide how much I borrowed…). Kylo, like Vanderbilt, is Dutch, and that’s Dutch that he reverts to when he cusses out Oushar. Manhattan was originally settled by the Dutch in the early 1600s and called New Amsterdam at the time. Lots of Dutch settlements also sprang up on the neighboring Staten Island (which was part of New Jersey back then; New York City would acquire it in 1898). The Dutch maintained a booming shipping/ferry trade between Staten Island and Manhattan, and they mostly sailed [periaugers](https://perquimansrestoration.org/images/periaugerphoto_10.jpg). By the early 1800s, however, [steamships](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Steamship), which generated steam to power huge paddlewheels, started to compete with sailing ships and marked the beginning of their end. Steamships were particularly helpful during the civil war for moving supplies along rivers. Anyway, SI ferrymen were *extremely* scrappy, competitive, and barely legal, so it seemed like a good role for a certain scoundrel.


End file.
